The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3)

by K. J. Hargan

  Ronenth saw Ravensdred pull the scimitar and horn out to his sides. He was going to use the double, crushing attack that he began with. Ronenth pulled and rotated his body so his feet were aimed straight at the huge garond's face, as he rapidly gathered in the segments of the paricale into a shield.

  Ronenth landed both feet squarely into Ravensdred's face, as the scimitar and horn clashed against the paricale gathered over Ronenth's head. As Ronenth fell, he quickly rearranged the paricale into the jagged saw blade and brought it down on Ravensdred's head. The garond deflected the strike by shifting his arms so that the iron ball in the middle of the chain took the angry, destructive sawing force of the paricale. Sparks showered between the two as Ronenth found his feet, only a step away from Ravensdred.

  Looking past Ravensdred, Ronenth saw a mop of wild orange hair, a girl, slashing with a sword, cutting garonds like Yonne the Lord of the Dead.

  "Hetwing!" Ronenth called. "Protect my flank!" Hetwing moved with a courage and confidence he had never before seen in the Princess of Reia. Though lithe, her stoke was deadly and cowered the garonds she faced. Hetwing had mooned over Ronenth when she stayed with her brother in New Rogar Li. But she was so different now. Ronenth was astounded at the change in her. But, was she changed? Had she not always been the woman he saw before him?

  Ravensdred sensed the Princess of Reia moving past him, under his right arm, and tried to bring his scimitar down on her as she came.

  Hetwing brought her sword up and laid a nasty, but not deep cut under Ravensdred's arm, as she skidded past the garond and turned to a stance directly behind Ronenth, her back to his back.

  "Finish him!" Hetwing yelled as she cut at the garonds that had circled behind Ronenth.

  "Watch your head," Ronenth warned Hetwing, as he looped the paricale up for a whipping strike at Ravensdred. "Nice of you to join the fight," Ronenth said with pretended casualness over his shoulder.

  "Be quiet and fight," Hetwing snarled. Ronenth laughed.

  Ronenth's paricale sang against the black scimitar and horn of the Ulokem Swogger as Ravensdred crossed them in a defensive move. Both the glaf and the garond struck again and again, and deflected in a storm of strikes and parries.

  Hetwing, fighting three garonds, gasped to hear the incredible speed of the clangs of the strikes as the paricale and the Ulokem Swogger clashed with intense fury behind her.

  For a moment, a wisp of orange hair from Hetwing floated back into Ronenth's face, and in that moment he knew he loved her. He could hear the sound of her sword behind him, slashing and ringing against the garonds who were attacking on his flank. Her back pressed against his. She had fallen in love with him last year, back in the politically difficult days of the rebuilding of New Rogar Li, he had ignored her, chasing after Frea, who he always knew was for Arnwylf. Why had he not seen what was right in front of him all this time? Love was right under his nose, and he was too busy feeling sorry for himself to see it. Ronenth fought with a renewed fury, until Ravensdred had to step back several paces, surprised by the glaf boy's sudden increase in strength.

  The human soldiers of Reia kept surging forward until there were no clear front lines or cohesive groups of garond or human. The battle raged one on one all throughout the Plains of Syrenf.

  Ravensdred tried to bring his scimitar in with a downward press as a feint to counter with the black horn. Ronenth saw the obviousness of the move, and saw an opportunity.

  As the horn came in, Ronenth swung the end section of the paricale around Ravensdred's left hand. The black chain wrapped around the garond's wrist kept him from losing his hand as before. But, Ronenth switched his grip on the paricale and locked up Ravensdred's left hand grasping the black horn of the Ulokem Swogger.

  Ravensdred pulled his left hand, but Ronenth held him tight. The Scimitar was a slashing, crushing weapon, and now Ravensdred had no room to swing the black blade.

  Ravensdred adapted immediately and brought his scimitar up close to Ronenth's face with the intention of drawing it across the glaf boy's throat. Ronenth whipped the other, free section of the paricale up to catch Ravensdred's right arm. The paricale cut into Ravensdred' flesh, but not deeply because of the length of the segments of the elvish weapon.

  Ronenth and Ravensdred were locked to a standstill within the tangles of their weapons. Ravensdred pulled and pushed, and Ronenth clung to him with all his might. Ronenth knew if he let the large garond free, even for an instant, Ravensdred would have the advantage.

  Ronenth heard Hetwing, behind him, grunting with the tiredness that was settling on her weary limbs. She couldn't keep up this defense by herself for much longer. Ronenth was bound to Ravensdred between the paricale and the Ulokem Swogger and he had no idea what to do next.

  Iounelle hacked her way towards Deifol Hroth on the far side of the Plain of Syrenf. The twisted garonds were the worst, fighting with tooth and claw like wild animals. She tried to face as many as she could to take some of the burden off the humans facing the weirdly misshaped things. The magic-twisted garonds were taking down two, three human soldiers at once with their enormous claws and fangs.

  Something burned in her mind, and she couldn't push the questions out of her head, even as she fought. What was the Ar for? Why was this thought suddenly plaguing her? How did the black stone work? She must have been taught something about it. Why couldn't she recall what she had learned about the strange Heart of the Earth?

  Frea fought side by side with her mother, Halldora. The Athelings of Man were mighty warriors who fought with courage and honor. But, the ghaunts were too much. Even though there were only several hundred of the dead humans, they couldn't be stopped unless they were completely hacked to pieces.

  Halldora looked over at her daughter. Frea was no longer a little girl. She was a woman, a fierce woman with a noble and true heart. Her daughter swung the black sword she had found buried in the Far Grasslands with deadly accuracy, keeping the dead claws of the ghaunts back. The black sword seemed to give her little daughter a daunting strength.

  Frea growled as she hacked at the dirty, animated corpses. They took too many hits to bring down. She looked about. The Athelings of Man were failing.

  From the corner of her eye, the elf's heart leapt as she saw the Archer leading his kiplethite archers from across the river. The kiplethites arced arrow after arrow into the twisted garonds, over the heads of field now filled with fighting humans and garonds.

  The elf then had to make a difficult choice, should she make her way towards the Dark One, or should she fight her way to the Archer's side as he had requested.

  The elf cut and slashed limbs and heads from the twisted garonds. She knew what she had to do. The elf turned north and fought her way towards the Lord of Lightning.

  Arnwylf fought his way through the melee raging all about him. A black flock of arrows sailed over his head. The archers to the west had crossed the river and joined the main body of the battle. The field was a confusing mix of humans and garonds. The garonds had pushed through the human lines, then a crush of humans, the reians, had come up behind the garonds.

  Arnwylf hoped the wolves would hold the vyreeoten on their western flank. The human army seemed to be holding the twisted garonds on their eastern flank. Ahead Arnwylf saw the ghaunts to the north tearing into the human army. He thought he saw a flash of wild, red hair that belonged to Frea. But he couldn't think about her at this moment. He had to make his way to Deifol Hroth.

  He was close. Arnwylf could see a group of garonds surrounding the Lord of Lightning, less than a quarter of a league away. Arnwylf was close enough to see a garond kneel and present the fused Sun and Moon swords. He already had the swords! He had all the pieces! Arnwylf fought desperately, hacking and chopping his way towards the Evil One.

  Derragen, the Archer from Kipleth, let loose the last of his arrows. He had but the Arrow of Yenolah left in his quiver.

  "Swords!" Derragen cried to his men. The archers let their last arrows go, then unshea
thed their swords and charged the melee of garond fighting human.

  The Archer paused for a moment. A chill ran up his spine. His hairs stood on end as it seemed that Sehen, the blind Sage stood before him.

  "Your target is where you want it to be, and you must trust your arrow to find it," the blind sage said, then vanished with the vision.

  The Archer strode forward. He pulled the Arrow of Yenolah from his quiver and nocked it to his bow string. He walked as though in a dream. The garonds and humans raged in bloody conflict all about him, yet no one touched him. He seemed to not even be on the field of battle.

  The Archer's mind was quiet, empty and clear as he drew the Arrow of Yenolah tight to his cheek. Still slowly, calmly, walking forward, he felt as though all sound had drained out of the furious carnage violently raging on all sides.

  The Archer stopped. This was the place. Here.

  Sighting on nothing, no target before him, the Dark Lord nowhere near, the Archer from Kipleth released.

  Deifol Hroth motioned with his finger for Klad to stab the fused Sun and Moon swords into the ground. Klad rose and jammed the swords into the sod of the Plain of Syrenf. Those listening thought they heard a deep groan from the earth.

  Deifol Hroth stepped to the swords. The strange metal tube extended from the hilt of the Sun Sword, the Singing Sword, the Mattear Gram, pointing at the sky as if imploring great powers.

  The Lord of All Evil Magic slipped the elvish crystal, the ancient Vananth Indelune, the Lhalíi, onto the metal tube of the Mattear Gram.

  A flash of light and a whoosh of air, faster than sound, a deafening moment, flew through all the plain in a hemispherical halo that flew out to the horizon in all directions. Then an earsplitting boom rattled every combatant on the Plain of Syrenf. All paused in fear, for only a instant, then resumed their life and death struggles, the servants of the Dark One more energized, feeling victory near, the humans more desperately for the same reason.

  The elf, only twenty paces away, sword high for a strike, suddenly clutched her head and collapsed.

  "It's in my mind!" The elf screamed in pain as she fell and writhed on the grass of Syrenf.

  Arnwylf was only a few paces behind the elf as she fell. He saw Deifol Hroth place the Ar on the short length of metal of the Mattear Gram that protruded from the top of the Lhalíi. All the objects of arcane power were finally assembled.

  A flash of raw, white fire burst from the Heaven's Key with such vicious ferocity that Klad and all the garonds within ten paces of the Lord of Lightning were instantly vaporized to black ashes.

  Arnwylf felt the heat of the energy on his face. It was too late. Deifol Hroth laid his hand on the machine and a massive spear of light exploded from the combined device, lancing up from the center into the cerulean blue of the sky, and hit the Wanderer, the second moon.

  "He's done it," Arnwylf whispered in horror to himself, looking up.

  The halo of energy enveloping the small moon shone with an incredible intensity in the bright, afternoon sky. A sickening booming, a screech of tearing, a wail of unnatural terror rained down from the obscenity in the heavens as the Wanderer began to inch towards the earth.

  Then, time stopped.

  Arnwylf looked about. Every combatant, locked in their mortal struggles, was frozen. Flickers of flame from the burning citadel in the east were frozen like tongues of red and white quartz. Every garond, monster, wolf, and human engaged in a battle for life and death was still in the empty quiet of suspended time.

  "Beautiful, isn't it?" Deifol Hroth said to Arnwylf as he casually walked away from the machine. The energy still throbbed out from the combined objects. The power pulsed slow and insisted upwards, like a tower of undulating, blue and white water flowing up into the sky.

  "Stop what you're doing," Arnwylf whispered to Deifol Hroth. "You'll kill everyone."

  The Lord of Lightning laughed a pleasant, amused laugh. "Why else am I doing all this? But I will tell you, I will stop all of this," he swept his arm to indicate the paralyzed mass of fighting warriors and creatures, "if you give me your body, free and without reservation."

  "You are lying," Arnwylf said. "You will not stop this. This is everything you have worked for... for centuries."

  "Since time began," Deifol Hroth corrected with a wide smile. "I win. Everything. Everything will have to be scrapped. Destroyed. I, you, all of it, will have to be remade. Then, I won't have to be who I am, was. You, too, can be someone, something else. Anything you want."

  "You're doing this because you don't like who you chose to be," Arnwylf asked with disbelief.

  "I had no choice in who I was cast to play!" Deifol Hroth angrily yelled.

  "Everyone, every day has the choice to decide what direction their life will go," Arnwylf calmly said.

  "You are wrong," Deifol Hroth said holding back his anger. "And now you are dead." The Lord of Evil spread wide his hands and lightning fingered down from the sky, hitting Arnwylf. Branches of energy arced from the massive pulse that was pulling down the Wanderer.

  Arnwylf balled his fists. The energy coursed through his body. His teeth clenched involuntarily. His body shook. But he did not die. He raised his head.

  "You'll have to do better than that," Arnwylf said, recovering, gasping for breath.

  "Very well," Deifol Hroth sneered.

  The Evil One moved away from the Heaven's Key, and strode towards Arnwylf. The great, pulsing tower of energy continued to flow up the length of the sky to the Wanderer, pulling it closer with every heart beat. The colossal tower of energy streaming upwards, in slow motion, looked like blue and white honey pouring into the sky.

  As Deifol Hroth slowly walked towards Arnwylf, frozen soldiers, garonds, and monsters were violently thrown from his path like weightless statues by the invisible force of the Evil One's will.

  Arnwylf waited. He thought for a moment of the bull nyati he had killed in Zik's land. He knew if he turned in any direction, he would be dead. He had to let the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic come to him. Then Arnwylf cleared his thoughts. He knew to keep his mind blank, like the teachings of the Ballad of Sehen.

  "Sehen?" Deifol Hroth said with contempt. "That old fool was so easy to kill."

  Arnwylf almost replied to the lie, but kept his mind clear. He had to let the Devourer come to him. Do not turn, give nothing away, Arnwylf thought to himself.

  "Give what away?" Deifol Hroth said with a small laugh as he neared.

  Arnwylf readied his sword. He was only ten paces away.

  Deifol Hroth raised his hand, and Arnwylf's sword began to glow white with heat. Arnwylf had to drop the sword as it fell sizzling to the turf of Syrenf. Arnwylf never took his eyes off of Deifol Hroth.

  "I so wish I could explain where I come from," Deifol Hroth said with something akin to sympathy. "I so wish I could explain what it means to be abandoned for centuries, and then to find power, real power. And then to discover a purpose, a direction, a justification for all that has befallen me. But your small mind couldn't comprehend anything that I could tell you. Pity. I rather liked you."

  Deifol Hroth raised his hand again, and Arnwylf felt a blow to his chest harder than anything he had ever experienced in his short life. Arnwylf was knocked off his feet, back several paces. He turned and saw the elf very close, sprawled on the turf, frozen in time, clutching her head in pain.

  Deifol Hroth still several paces away, swung a back hand at Arnwylf. Although not physically touching him, Arnwylf felt the force of the blow as it whipped his head back, nearly shattering his jaw. Blood began to flow from Arnwylf's mouth and nose.

  Arnwylf tried to rise, crawled away from the elf. Once again Deifol Hroth kicked at seemingly empty air, and Arnwylf felt the crush of impact against his ribs, breaking several. He's going to kill me and the plan will be for naught, Arnwylf thought in panic.

  "Yes," Deifol Hroth said. "I am going to kill you, and your plan will be for naught. What was your pathetic plan? I find very little amusement
in this world. And, I would love to know the plan wrought by the great Yulenth of Glafemen. Yes," Deifol Hroth said as he followed Arnwylf, who tried to crawl away. "I know of Yulenth's plan, but the wily old glaf kept the details in his thoughts carefully hidden from me."

  Arnwylf knew he had to fight back somehow. But, he didn't know what to do. Frustrated, Arnwylf turned to sit facing Deifol Hroth, and he raised his fists and shouted in righteous anger. A lightning bolt fingered down from the clear blue sky and hit the Dark lord of All Evil. Deifol Hroth shook as the energy coursed through his body. He appeared surprised after the brief spear of lightning abated.

  "You hurt me," Deifol Hroth whispered in astonished, amused anger. "I have not been injured for centuries." A bonfire of cruel, retaliatory, violence blazed in the Dark Lord's eyes.

  Deifol Hroth strode towards Arnwylf with a quickening pace, his feet lifting off the earth. Pulling his fist back, he came close, and struck and struck at Arnwylf. Arnwylf raised his hands and deflected the blocks as exploding sparks and sizzling cracks of energy spit from between their fists and hands.

  Arnwylf was surprised to find he could defect the Dark One's blows for only a moment. Arnwylf rained his own blows down on the Evil One, who sneered and pushed the energy cracking strikes aside.

  Arnwylf pushed the Dark Lord with a purpose, guiding the onslaught in a certain direction, keeping his mind blank.

  Deifol Hroth fought back, the flashes of energy between them growing in intensity.

  Arnwylf could feel that he was getting the worst of the struggle. His arms ached with intense pain. He smelled smoke and knew that he was probably burning from the inside. Several of his fingers were broken. He was certain that one arm was fractured. And, the Lord of Lightning barely looked winded. He only looked more and more angry.

  Deifol Hroth threw a flurry of punches that flashed with blinding energy. Arnwylf's body shook with the punishment. He couldn't stand. He was back to crawling. I am close, Arnwylf thought.