The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3)

by K. J. Hargan

  They paused for more, but the elf was silent in her agony. She gripped the cloth of the cot, eyes squeezed shut, her back arching in pain.

  "And Derragen?" Arnwylf quietly asked. Prensy, close to the Archer, simply shook her head. Arnwylf looked down at the man who had saved his life two years ago, in Bittel, and tenderly touched his foot.

  "There was no sign of your mother?" Arnwylf gently asked, turning to Frea.

  "She burned with the Fire Bird," Frea answered, the tears coming again. "Like the cremation of her husband, she left with the glory of the flames, saving us all."

  Arnwylf held Frea as she silently wept.

  "We only have each other now," Arnwylf said and softly kissed Frea. All the burning embers of revenge, and bloodthirsty desires for repayment were gone from Arnwylf's heart. All he wanted was to start a family with Frea and leave the madness of war behind him.

  Ronenth and Hetwing entered the tent, solemnly hand in hand.

  "Any news?" Ronenth asked.

  "They both may die," Arnwylf answered.

  All were silent as they contemplated the strange companions, lying silently next to each other.

  Then Ronenth put his hand on Arnwylf's arm and spoke. "They want you to come back out," he said to Arnwylf.

  The young man from Bittel looked down. His bitterness and frustration were evident. He did not want to lead or ascend any position of royalty. He wanted to simply live his life as his father had done, in a quiet place, with those he loved. The squabbling of humanity had almost been its undoing. Could they not govern themselves? Were they such children, one and all, that the burden of governance could not be shared?

  "Can they not bury their dead and mourn, instead of pitching head long into politics again?" Arnwylf said low and angry. "The dead are not even cold, and they want to bicker over power and territories already."

  "I will support whatever you wish," Hetwing humbly said. Then, thought better of adding more.

  "As will I," Frea said with a quiet smile.

  "All I want to do is marry you," Arnwylf said with a smile and gentle hug to Frea, "and go home to Bittel."

  "You know you cannot," Ronenth said with a frown.

  The four regarded each other: Hetwing, now the Queen of Reia; Ronenth, the inheritor of Glafemen; Frea, Queen of the Northern Kingdom of Man; and Arnwylf, King of the Weald and Chieftain of the Madrun Hills. Except for despoiled Kipleth, they represented all that was left of the leadership of all of Wealdland.

  But, there was no rejoicing nor cries of triumph. The sorrow of their immense loss, and the great task of rebuilding weighed on all their shoulders.

  "I'd best go out to them," Arnwylf said looking down.

  "Let us go out together," Hetwing softly said, "united."

  Arnwylf smiled at her. This new strength and certainty in shy Hetwing kindled a hope in Arnwylf's heart. The future could be written with light, instead of darkness. Why not?

  The two young men and two young women exited. Just outside the tent, a great crush of all the humanity that was left in Wealdland crowded together. The night was dark. The mother moon, Nunee had not yet risen. There were many torches, but only brightened by starlight. The softly illuminated faces of the humans preserved from the battle were all etched with a sad expectation, a child-like innocence in the face of sorrow.

  Nobles, Lords and Athelings began to shout for Arnwylf and the others to claim leadership over their nation. Arnwylf held up his hand and all were respectfully silent.

  Arnwylf looked out at the beaten, battered, hopeful faces of men, women and children.

  "By the Great Parent," Arnwylf said, "your faces are so beautiful. Look around. Have you ever seen anything more glorious than the faces of those who have survived?"

  Arnwylf was quiet. Then spoke again.

  "Some of you have lost many," Arnwylf continued. "Some of you have lost all, like me, and Frea, and Hetwing, and Ronenth. And we are going to quarrel about who will be called "Lord' or who will rule whom?" Arnwylf was overcome with both angry and sorrowful emotions, and had to wait a moment to gather his voice.

  The crowd was silent with shame.

  "Let me speak to the garond prisoners," Arnwylf said. Arnwylf was met by an even more awful silence. Arnwylf turned in shock to Stralain. "We spared none?"

  Stralain looked down in shame.

  "We killed every garond?" Arnwylf asked with horrified astonishment, tears filling in his eyes.

  "They would have done no less to us," an Atheling boldly said.

  "Are we garonds?" Arnwylf sharply rebuked. "Have we sunk so low that we might as well serve the Dark Lord? Did none of the garond soldiers surrender?" The shameful silence told Arnwylf everything.

  "I have no desire to rule or even lead humans who would do such abomination," Arnwylf spitefully said as he turned to go. Frea caught his arm.

  Arnwylf turned back in anger, "Let them go back to the tribes of old, be Skyld or Wylfling, and live like animals!"

  "My Lord," Frea softly said. "The humans of Wealdland have endured much hardship, for many winters. We all thought our cause lost. When the tide of the battle turned, perhaps the desire to reclaim our lands proved to push many to do more than they ought to have. Surely we can forgive, as they would hope to forgive any trespass you have made."

  Arnwylf looked down. He was not spotless. He had stolen the Lhalíi and Mattear Gram, and delivered the objects of vast magical power right into the hands of the Dark Lord.

  "I am sorry there is no garond to make peace with," Arnwylf said to the crowd, letting his anger cool. "Let us then make every possible peace with each other. Let no grudge or complaint stand. Let all grievances and debts be cleared and settled. We start a new day tomorrow. I think the solution is very easy. Let the Holmwy River divide our lands east and west. Let every man or woman live where they will. Frea and I will lead the East, and Ronenth and Hetwing will lead the West. They can rebuild Gillalliath and Alfhich, and we can rebuild Ethgeow, Rogar Li and Kenethley."

  The crowd began to murmur approval.

  "But let no man call himself 'Lord' or 'Atheling'," Arnwylf quickly, sternly added. "In this new world, we are all equal. I am no better than any of you. But, I will lead, if you will follow. Will you rebuild Wealdland with me?"

  "Aye!" The crowd yelled. But, there were some Athelings and highborn who held their tongues and glowered with disappointment.

  "And what of Lanis?" A man shouted. "Will the elves rebuild their great city?"

  Arnwylf and Frea shared a quiet look.

  "The elf may not live," Frea said. "I think all humans should stay out of Lanis, in respect for her fallen race. She has done more for us than any human ever did for any elf."

  Again the assembled were quieted by their shame.

  "Let us give thanks, bury our dead, and cleanse the monstrous with fire," Hetwing said to close the meeting. Arnwylf smiled, the quiet little daughter of King Healfdene had become a great leader. And, the looks of love between Hetwing and Ronenth were the source of much happy comment among the people of Wealdland.

  "Arnwylf!" Prensy called from the tent. Arnwylf, Frea, Ronenth and Hetwing hurried to the tent that covered the ailing elf and Archer.

  Inside the tent, Iounelle was sitting up on her cot, eyes wide, staring into the infinite.

  "It is going home!" Iounelle cried. "The Heaven's Key is going home! It is so bright! The sun is so hot! I can see it!" Then the elf took in her breath with the wonderment of the vision unfolding before only her eyes.

  "What? What happened?" Arnwylf asked, holding Iounelle's hand.

  The elf blinked, released from the trance.

  "Something got in the way," Iounelle weakly said. "Something happened. It hit. I- I don't know. It was so large." Then, the elf looked around as though she saw the inside of the tent for the first time, and her gaze fell upon the Archer laying on the nearby cot. "Derragen!" The elf cried and leapt, stumbling, out of bed, and to the Archer's side.

  "Maefnornl, maefn
ornl ," the elf softly whispered, stroking his cheek, his forehead, lightly kissing him.

  The Archer slowly opened his eyes.

  "My elf," Derragen softly said in a weak voice, "so beautiful, one and only, the rarest of jewels. How your eyes sparkle like none other. How momentous a love I had for only one night. It was the greatest moment of my life. I am so fortunate to have had only the short time we had together. I only wish I still had my hands to hold you one last time." Then, the Archer died.

  The tent was still and quiet. Even the breeze calmed and was silent. It was as if the whole world held its breath in sorrow at the passing of a great man. The elf rose, and, without emotion nor comment, left the tent, as it filled with the sobs and wails of the other humans.

  Stralain met the elf as she exited the tent. He heard the wailing of the others and instantly knew. He couldn't even bring himself to ask the question. Stralain knelt in sorrow and respect.

  Iounelle moved through the throng of people waiting outside for news of their saviors. Her face was expressionless. She moved slowly, in shock. The elf found the woman holding little Mót.

  Iounelle took the infant and walked away into the dark.

  A whisper went among the people, and all the saved humanity of Wealdland slowly knelt or sat upon the ground in sorrow and respect for the passing of Derragen of Pelych, the Archer from Kipleth.

  The sound of the weeping softly carried out from the tent, the only sound on all the Plain of Syrenf. The people, all who had survived, quietly mourned.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The Resting Place

  The small stand of trees was cool against the afternoon sun, and the bright green leaves of the massive elms swayed and danced with the sweet breezes of the warm days of summer.

  Yulenth walked slowly, needing a cane now. Infernal thing, he thought to himself. I'm not old, I've only seen fifty seven summers. Yulenth rubbed the bandages covering his shoulders and arms. The burns he sustained from the Lord of Lightning were serious, but would heal in time. It had been a moonth since the Battle of the Syrenf Plains. Everyone had their war stories, and there seemed to be a new vitality in the air.

  The old glaf had played a dangerous game with the Lord of Lightning, pretending to be an ally, plotting his downfall. And, he had won. He beat the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic. Yulenth smiled to himself. I'll bet I could give the elf a good game of Jaefa Smiota, he thought to himself.

  But, the boy king, Arnwylf, had actually vanquished the Dark Lord. And the Archer. And the elf. Give all three credit. We couldn't have done it without them, the three that acted as one, Yulenth thought to himself.

  Peace and prosperity were the watch words on everyone's lips. The dressing on his wounds itched Yulenth like mad.

  "Leave those bandages alone," Frea called to Yulenth.

  The old glaf waved at Frea to tell her he heard her, but wasn't going to obey her. Yulenth walked around the foundations where his old house had been.

  He had lived with Alrhett here for almost thirteen glorious summers. Who would have thought he could be so happy, so late in life. You're supposed to be happiest when you are in your twenties, he thought. But his forties with Alrhett were the happiest days of all of his existence. When you have love, good love, hold onto it with both hands, Yulenth thought to himself.

  Then, he remembered what Halldora had said to him just before the Battle of the Eastern Meadowland. She wished she could bring those days of peace and happiness back to him.

  It was impossible now, without his Alrhett. This new world, fought for and won, belonged to the young. It seemed everyone was having children. Both Frea and Hetwing were both pregnant already.

  Yulenth looked over at Ronenth and Hetwing shyly standing together, quietly muttering words of love in the cool shadows thrown by the towering elms of Bittel. The dark haired boy, Yulenth huffed to himself. He would have to think of Ronenth as a man, now. The dark haired young man and Hetwing would continue the line of glafs. The race of Glafemen would not die out. Yulenth smiled to himself and found a place to sit under a spreading oak. The trees of Bittel just seemed so much better than trees anywhere else.

  A tear started in Yulenth's eye, and he smiled to himself.

  "Silly glaf," Yulenth said to himself. "What, are you feeling sorry for yourself, or something? Shape up, you old softy."

  "You should allow yourself to feel however you feel," Iounelle solemnly said from the other side of the tree. Yulenth looked over his shoulder to see the elf silently sitting in the summer shadows, the human baby she had inherited at the River Hye, and called 'Mót', quietly slept in her arms.

  "Be careful what you say around an elf," Yulenth sadly laughed, "so the old saying goes, for they will hear even your thoughts."

  Iounelle sadly smiled and said nothing. Yulenth knew the torment in her heart and let her be. They both quietly sat in the cool shadows of the elms and oaks. The soft laughter of the small stream that ran through Bittel could be heard whenever the breeze momentarily calmed.

  Across the clearing, where the three small houses had once stood, Arnwylf knelt next to a new burial mound. The dirt was pungent and achingly fresh. Wynnfrith's burial mound was right next to the mound overgrown with grass and small wild flowers, Kellabald's burial mound.

  There had been much discussion about interring Wynnfrith at the roots of the family tree in the burial glen of the Weald. But, Arnwylf knew his mother wanted nothing more than to be near her dear husband for all eternity. Arnwylf knew this is where his mother had been, and would be, the happiest.

  There was an ache in Yulenth's heart. It irritated him. What was the glaf way? Suffer pain, and laugh at your troubles. That foul Garmee Gamee had poisoned his dear beloved Alrhett. Frea told him how she had to kill her, in the Far Grasslands, because Garmee Gamee was misusing the Ar. Yulenth wished he had been the one to kill her.

  No, Yulenth thought, I wish her life had been better, and she had the chance to become the good person she should have become. But, oh, he missed his wife.

  Yulenth put his head in his hands and silently wept.

  He heard the elf stirring. She rose and quietly sat next to Yulenth. She didn't speak or touch him. She just sat next to him, cradling the human baby. Yulenth stilled his tears for fear of waking the babe. The elf and the glaf sat silently enjoying the shade on the glorious summer day.

  Arnwylf looked over at the elf as she sat next to Yulenth. Not far from where they sat, half hidden in the deep shade, was a third, fresh burial mound. The elf had asked for Derragen to be buried in Bittel, among friends and those she had come to love. Arnwylf told the elf he would be honored to have the Archer interred near his father and mother.

  Arnwylf motioned Ronenth and Hetwing to come close. Arnwylf didn't bother calling Iounelle and Yulenth over. The elf could probably hear him anyway, and the old glaf seemed at peace for the first time since the Great Battle.

  "I want to say a few words," Arnwylf began. "Not one of us has father or mother anymore. All of us had honorable, loving parents. I am sorry I never got to know your mother Hetwing, or your parents, Ronenth, but I know they would have been good people as evidenced by the children they brought up.

  "Here we are, not one of us older than eighteen summers, and yet the whole of the governance of the Weald now rests on our shoulders. We must make a solemn vow, here on the graves of these who gave their lives, that we will never quarrel or fight among ourselves. You have been my dearest friends and I wish you to be as dear, and dearer, to me the whole of the rest of my life.

  "We must respect the elf and let no human settle in Lanis. The land of the elves must remain sacred and pristine for all our lives, and for all the lives of our children, and their children.

  "If anyone finds a garond alive, we must swear that that garond will not be killed without a fair hearing. It saddens my heart tremendously to think that we may have caused their race to be no more, even in spite of their great crimes. I do not think the race should fore
ver be responsible for the wicked influence of One whose powers were greater than they could withstand.

  "I will miss my father and mother. My father was a great man, courageous and humble, a rare combination I have discovered. My mother had faults, but her weakness was only tempered by her overwhelming desire to once again be with her one and only love, Kellabald. Now they are together, and I know in my heart she is at rest and happy in his arms.

  "I am truly glad to have had the parents I was blessed with. They instilled in me an appreciation of love, and an understanding of the great value of true friends. These virtues are what has saved my life in my most troubling times: true love, and true friends."

  Arnwylf held out his hand and Frea, Ronenth, and Hetwing all grasped his hand in a square of trust, love and strength.

  "True love, and true friends," Frea, Hetwing and Ronenth repeated.

  The elf rose and joined the group. "Thank you for being my friends," Iounelle said to the group.

  There was a rustling in the tall grass out in the Meadowland, beyond the tree line.

  "It's Conniker," the elf smiled. "I'd know his footfall anywhere now." The white wolf entered Bittel, with at least twenty wolves behind him.

  "My sincere greetings, elf," Conniker said in wolfish. "My brother," Conniker said to Arnwylf, "it saddens my heart to tell you I must live now on the Meadowland with my pack."

  Arnwylf stepped forward and threw his arms around the white wolf's shaggy mane. "I will miss you, brother," Arnwylf said. "Come and visit me any time. You will always be welcome. And I will order every human in the land to leave the wolf race in peace."

  "As I will instruct my kind," Conniker said. It seemed almost as if the huge white wolf was about to weep, and Iounelle was fascinated, wondering if a wolf could cry. But, Conniker quickly turned and faded into the tall, summer grasses before it could be seen if a wolf can weep.

  "Iounelle," Arnwylf suddenly said with excitement. "All this time I have forgotten to tell you. I saw some elvish writing in the land of Zik Mkichaa, the corsair from the south. In the Red Mountains, there were elvish words carved, large and bold on the side of a mountain."