The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2)

by K. J. Hargan

  Book Two:

  The Archer From Kipleth

  By K. J. Hargan

  The Archer From Kipleth

  Copyright 2011 by K. J. Hargan

  All right reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this ebook and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author’s work.

  Cover illustration by Damian Hawes. Copyright Kurt J. Hargan 2012. Used with permission.

  * * * * *

  The author would like to thank Annette and Roy, once again, for their support and love, Koral, who I thank, once again as sister, editor, and most ardent fan.

  A special thanks goes to Ryan Algie of Vancouver for being the first to leave a supportive comment on my blog. It meant a lot to me to know that someone out there actually liked my book. And, another special thanks goes to Kenneth Wilson of Coventry, UK who was the first to follow me on Twitter. Again, a little support goes a long way.

  thelastelfoflanis.blogspot.com

  on twitter: kjhargan

  *.*.*.*.*

  The trees that once lived form a black ring.

  There in the dark comes the black thing.

  From far, far away, without any light,

  Nothing can stop it from bringing the night.

  Stay out of the Weald.

  Stay out of the Weald.

  - Old Elvish Nursery Rhyme -

  Chapter One

  Lanis

  “Derragen,” the elf whispered, using the Archer’s first name. “They’re coming.” The elf shifted in the snow bank. Her limbs were tired and cold. Her cloak had turned a mottled white to match the winter countryside. She turned her head to allow her sensitive, gently pointed ears to pick up the sounds an average human would be unable to detect. It was unusual for the snow to get almost waist deep in the south of Wealdland, but with hardly any snow in the far north, it seemed the arrival of the Dark Lord of Magic had thrown the very weather out of balance.

  The Archer shrugged slightly in his hiding place in the snow bank to keep his muscles from tightening up. He wore a white, hooded cloak, and other heavy clothing to keep out the cold of the Midwinter days. His fingers were stiff from holding his bow at the ready.

  He had eleven arrows laid out in the snow bank before him. Ten bronze arrows set in a perfect row with a thick, black Arrow of Yenolah in the middle, just in case He was with the approaching garonds.

  “Iounelle?” The Archer whispered. “Are they on foot?”

  “I think so,” the elf whispered back. “I think they’re walking their horses.”

  “So, they’re coming slow and ready for a fight,” the Archer said as he flexed his fingers to warm them. The Archer whistled long and low, then three sharp notes. He looked around to see all the hidden, human soldiers, dressed in white, hidden in the snow, move slightly to acknowledge the warning.

  The Archer looked over at the elf. She was thin and her eyes were darkly rimmed. The sensitive, heartbreaking quality which was so intriguing when he first met her outside the village of Bittel, over a year ago, was replaced with a cold, unapproachable defense. He had rejected her offer of love. His murdered wife’s memory was still too fresh in his heart. Over the year, after the great battle, the Archer had stayed loyally by the elf’s side, driven by confusing emotions he refused to confront.

  They had gained fanatical followers, humans who tried to help them retake the elvish capital from the remnants of the broken garond army, the invading race who had tried to drive humanity to extinction at the great, bloody conflict in the Eastern Meadowland.

  The losing garond force had been divided into three groups. One group went north to follow their war general, Ravensdred. The second group of garonds went into the massive forest of the Weald, and hadn’t lasted long as the cover of the forest gave crafty humans the advantage. And, the largest portion of the garond army fled southwest, to Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam, the empty, elvish city, to protect their leader and Ravensdred’s master, Deifol Hroth, a being filled with mystical, evil power, more a demon than a human.

  The elf waited with eager anticipation. She would never get her fill of garond blood. A treacherous army of garonds had marched on her city, two years earlier and killed every elf left, except for her. She was the last of her race.

  She looked over at the Archer.

  He had dark brown eyes, and dark hair, now frosted with the white of age. He had an immense sadness about him constantly. He had lost his entire family in the mountains of Kipleth with the first garond incursions into Wealdland. She loved him so deeply it pained her to think of him kissing her, his lips moving down her neck, his hands firmly holding her shoulders. She shook herself to dispel the lack of focus that comes with desire. He chose to honor the memory of his slaughtered wife, and she respected his grief. A tightness caught at her throat, and she softly swallowed to ready herself for the approaching garonds.

  The trees were all black and bare for the winter, and frosted with snow. She could never remember, in all of her three hundred or so years, snow this far south in Lanis. But this year the weather was all out of balance, usually the land of the elves was mild, but it was warmer and dryer in the Northern wastes. And, the great, northern ice fields were apparently thawing and receding at an alarming rate.

  The garonds came slowly leading their horses, three of them, with arrows ready in their bows. Garonds were new to archery, but had adapted quickly. They were coated with snow and hunched in bundles of filthy rags. Probably clothing from my city, the elf thought to herself. The garonds were breathing heavily, and the steam from their breath haloed their shaggy heads.

  Garonds were short, squat, and very muscular. Their hairy faces were ape-like. Their teeth filed to a razor sharpness. Once great friends to the elves, the garond race was now commanded by the Dark Lord, and sought to destroy every last human in Wealdland, as they had done to the last of the elves.

  Her brother had knocked Iounelle unconscious when the battle started, two years ago. There were barely a hundred elves left in all the world, and against nearly a hundred thousand garonds, the outcome was grim and inevitable. From her hiding place, Iounelle had awoken to see the last five elvish warriors fighting for their lives, her brother among them. His eyes flashed to her to flee as a hundred garonds swarmed over them. That last image played before her eyes every other moment.

  Now, armed with the sacred Moon Sword of Berand Torler, her revenge was bloodthirsty and unrelenting.

  “Now!” The elf cried in an unnaturally loud voice as she sprang from her hiding place.

  Derragen, the Archer, hit the lead garond square between the eyes with a bronze arrow. As Iounelle, the last elf of Lanis swu
ng her Moon Sword wide to take the heads of the other two garonds.

  “Quick, quick!” The Archer commanded his troops in hiding. And, the young men who hadn’t even a chance to engage the enemy ran to the place of slaughter to quickly drag the garond bodies from the trail. Often garonds sent soldiers ahead of a larger group to draw fire, and expose the enemy. The humans and the elf waited for any secondary incursion.

  There was hardly any wind, and the cold sat oppressively on the chest. Breathing was difficult, but the seasoned fighters knew to regulate their breathing to keep from giving away their places of ambush.

  The Archer looked to the elf. She shook her head.

  “All clear,” the Archer called. “Let’s get these bodies back to camp.”

  “Cover the blood,” the elf said. And several human soldiers quickly kicked snow onto the dark patches where the garonds were slaughtered.

  “Akden and Nolebe, you stay to keep watch,” The Archer said. “Everyone else let’s get some food into you. We’ve put off the daily meal for too long.”

  Then, the twenty or so young men and women in hiding rose and followed the Archer and the elf back to their base.

  At their ramshackle camp, the garond bodies were searched thoroughly.

  “Is there an elvish sword for me?” Asked Valdey, a young man, barely fourteen years old. “All the other children of Lanis have elvish swords or daggers. My brother Haven has-”

  “You are too young to carry a sword, Valdey,” the elf said with a maternal smile.

  Valdey was a charming young man, with a mop of white blonde hair, and dark brown eyes. When he smiled the whole world lit up. When he was sad, as he was now, you wanted to embrace him until he felt loved and happy once again. Both his parents and all his brothers and sisters had been killed by the garond invasions.

  “But I am a child of Lanis...” Valdey trailed off gently stroking the winding leaf embroidered on his tunic. The pattern was a representation of a leaf from Mildarilg, the World Tree, a famous landmark in the elvish city.

  “I respect the passion your human group has for the memory of my people, but...” the elf trailed off seeing the growing hurt in Valdey’s eyes.

  “We’ll find something for you, yet,” she softly said. The young boy’s eyes teared with gratitude and wonder. “Now help with the meal,” the elf said, and she gave him a maternal hug that instantly brightened his countenance.

  “At least your followers listen to reason,” the Archer sighed with envy.

  “Sometimes I think the Sons of Yenolah are suicidal,” the elf worriedly agreed, looking over at a group of morose, young soldiers with the image of an arrowhead of Yenolah embroidered on their tunics. The Sons of Yenolah gloomily watched with dark rimmed, sad eyes.

  “Well, these garonds have nothing of interest,” the Archer grunted.

  “Riders from the east!” A call rang out. The whole camp scrambled for weapons. “They’re human! They’re human!” Another call urgently reassured.

  Into the camp rode fifty warriors of the Madrun Hills, with Caerlund, the chieftain of all Madrun, at their head.

  “Hail Derragen, General of Kipleth! Hail Iounelle, elvish lass!” Caerlund cheerfully called.

  “Get down from that horse and I’ll show you who’s a lass,” Iounelle laughed at Caerlund.

  “Welcome to Camp Ailliaden,” the Archer greeted with an upraised hand.

  “’Ailliaden?’” Caerlund said with dismay as he surveyed the meager supplies, thin-faced soldiers, and bony horses. “I know a little elvish as Madrun is Lanis’ neighbor. ‘Ailliaden’ is elvish for ‘paradise’, isn’t it?” Caerlund said with quieting pity.

  “The children of Lanis insisted we use the name,” the elf said with an embarrassed smile.

  “Enthusiastic group, your followers,” Caerlund muttered with gentle sarcasm into his red beard, as he absentmindedly scratched it.

  “I do not lead,” the elf said. “But I also cast no aspersions on their passions.”

  “I only wish I had more sway over my little group,” the Archer said. “No matter how I discourage them, it only makes them more determined.”

  “Just like their leader,” the elf laughed.

  “I’ve brought thirty bags of flour, a barrel of honey, and ten smoked boar’s hocks,” Caerlund said with humble pride. “It’s the best I could do under the circumstances.”

  “For these boys and girls, it will be a feast,” Derragen said.

  A meal was quickly arranged for all the troops. Derragen and Iounelle sat with Caerlund to hear the news of Wealdland.

  “The building of Rogar Li runs apace,” Caerlund said between mouthfuls. “It will take centuries to regain the beauty of the old trees, but the wealdkin are determined and resourceful. They now call the city New Rogar Li.”

  “And Alrhett, Wynnfrith, Frea?” The Archer asked. “And what of Yulenth, Solienth, and Ronenth?”

  Caerlund held up his hand as he swallowed.

  “The politics of New Rogar Li and the wealdkin are ever at play. I feel sometimes that machinations are in their very blood. Alrhett, Queen of the Weald, is well and were it not for her husband Yulenth, I fear she would never sleep nor eat for the unending business and politics of the people of the Weald.”

  “Lord Yulenth, one of the three last Glafs, ever employs his curious mind with new principles and strange devices, that inevitably become weapons of war, much to his displeasure. Nostacarr, the Master of the Library, has given him an old book with puzzling incantations, to which he invests all his free time.”

  “Speaking of which, Solienth and old Nostacarr, the Master of the Library, huh, library! There are but twenty some odd books rescued from the Great Fire of the Weald.”

  “But, Solienth, the Glaf, and Nostacarr, the Master of the Library are seeking to reconstruct as many books as their old memories can conjure.”

  “Haerreth of Reia is ever present in the courts of New Rogar Li trying to forge an alliance that will bond all the shattered nations of humanity.”

  “What news of Apghilis?” The Archer quietly asked.

  “The Great Betrayer dwells in the Northern Wastes, but half a day’s ride from Arnwylf and his siege. Apghilis draws more men from the Northern Kingdom of Man daily. He spews lies, saying he did not kill Kellabald on the field of battle, nor was his brand in error, but as Kellabald wished.”

  “And what of the boy from Glafemen?” The elf asked.

  “Young Ronenth, the last of the Glafs, ever seeks the favor of Frea, the young princess heir of The Northern Kingdom of Man. But, I fear her heart forever belongs to our dear boy, Arnwylf.” And then Caerlund trailed off to stare into the small fire.

  “And what of Arnwylf?” The elf quietly asked.

  “I just came from the siege of the north,” Caerlund said with growing anguish in his voice. “I thought to honor Arnwylf on his seventeenth birthday, but...”

  All were still to allow Caerlund to gather his emotions, for it was well understood that Caerlund felt fatherly to Arnwylf who had lost his actual father, Kellabald, the Great War General, in the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands at the hands of Apghilis’ treachery and betrayal.

  “Arnwylf leads as his father,” Caerlund went on. “But a boy, several thousand men would leap to their deaths at his command. He has grown lean and tall. The white wolf he calls Conniker is ever at his side. Several other soldiers have bonded with wolves and they call themselves The Brotherhood. For, every bonded wolf and man feels themselves brothers, and would rather die than let their companion suffer or yield.”

  “They siege the garond general Ravensdred, I’m certain you remember that bloodthirsty garond general...”

  Derragen was quietly shocked to hear Caerlund use such strong language.

  “The remnants of the garond army in the north,” Caerlund went on, “have discovered a castle from another age, unbound from the Great Ice Fields of Eann, which thaws at a surprising pace. Although outnumbered three to one, Arnwylf and his h
uman army put such fear into Ravensdred’s garonds, they refuse to move from the ruins of the ancient fortress.”

  “The boy,” Caerlund’s voice caught, “the boy is consumed with hatred and pain...”

  The three stared into the small cooking fire, remembering the frightened boy rescued from Bittel just over a year ago.

  “Well,” the Archer finally said, “our Arnwylf is doing a fine job of keeping Ravensdred from rejoining his master, Deifol Hroth, here in Lanis.”

  “I don’t know,” the elf mused. “Deifol Hroth is so powerful. I don’t know... Something inside tells me He is arraigning things, like the player of a game, getting His pieces in just the right positions for a winning move.”

  “I hear they are building a new citadel for the Dark Lord, here in Wealdland, near the Burnie river” Caerlund mused.

  “Just off the River Syrenf,” the Archer nodded. “We have also discovered some garonds leaving the garrison of the city with bricks in their packs, elvish bricks.”

  All were respectfully silent for the elf.

  “Have you seen the city?” Caerlund gently asked.

  “We can’t get close enough,” the Archer said. “It’s only over that rise, and then another ridge.”

  The young soldiers of the camp began to clean up their mess equipment.

  “There’s one other thing,” Caerlund said picking his teeth. “A red sail has been seen daily in the Bight of Lanis.”

  “A ship?” The Archer exclaimed. “But the garonds still have access to Wealdland through Byland.”

  “The garonds no longer hold Byland, Thank Eann,” Caerlund grunted.

  “The garonds do not sail,” the elf said. “When I was very young, corsairs from the south would sail to Lanis for trade. I recall their sails were red.”