by K. J. Hargan
Chapter Thirteen
From Kenethley to Tyny
Arnwylf woke to find a seagull perched on the headboard above his head, curiously staring down at him. The seagull croaked and then flapped out of the room.
Arnwylf was in a soft bed with clean sheets. A light huff made Arnwylf look down to see Conniker curled up on the bed at his feet and sleepily smiling at him.
The room was painted white and clean. Morning sunlight streamed in through large windows. Chiffon curtains swirled with the smell of salty sea air.
Frea entered with a plate of fresh bread, and a cup of milk.
Arnwylf sat up with bruises and aches.
“We were worried you wouldn’t live,” Frea said as she dipped a piece of bread into the milk and then gently put it into Arnwylf’s mouth.
Although it was only bread soaked with a little milk, because of his weeks of starvation at the hands of the garonds since that first raid on Bittel, to Arnwylf, it was the most delicious thing in the world. He held back tears.
Frea softly touched his cheek with the back of her hand. She pulled close to Arnwylf. His body was lean and muscular from the seven days of hard labor and starvation among the garonds. His face was serious and handsome. She had washed his dirty, matted hair, as he lay comatose in the bed. She stayed by his side the whole night furiously praying for his recovery. He looked up with a little milk dribbling from his chin, and smiled. Her lips yearned for his.
Then Rebburn bustled into the room.
“Out, out,” she said to Frea. “Plenty of time for that later.” Then the old woman peered down at Arnwylf. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch,” she said shaking her head.
Caerlund led the Archer and the elf into the room.
“How fare you, son! Welcome to Kenethley! “ Caerlund bellowed.
“Caerlund!” Arnwylf weakly cried.
“Are you well enough to walk? We must travel north quickly,” Caerlund said stroking his beard.
“Of course he isn’t,” Rebburn scolded.
“I think I could ride on one of the horses,” Arnwylf said with effort.
“They were left on the other side of the Fallfont Gorge, remember?” The Archer solemnly said.
“I would like to see Kenethley,” Arnwylf said rising from his bed.
“Now, now,” Rebburn protested. But, Arnwylf was already out of the bed and standing. Frea and the Archer supported him on either side. Conniker, with his tail bandaged, leapt off the bed to join Arnwylf.
Rebburn shook her head and clucked. “Only a boy, but the strength of an auroch.”
Caerlund stepped close to Rebburn and said, “I wish you had gone north with the others as you were supposed to.”
“Then who would have looked after him,” Rebburn said, gently pulling a lock of Arnwylf’s hair.
The group left Rebburn in the room softly clucking to the seagull, and went down a circular staircase and out onto the streets of Kenethley.
Arnwylf had been washed and clothed with spare clothes left in the great evacuation of the Madrun Hills. The capitol city Kenethley, a city of thousands, was strangely empty and quiet. Stalls and goods were left, rummaged and scattered as the humans of the city had fled for their lives.
The buildings of Kenethley, every single building, house, market, and great hall, was cylindrical, painted white and topped with a round, billowing, gray roof.
“They look like mushrooms!” Arnwylf laughed.
Caerlund did a double take, then looked around and around at his city as though for the first time.
“Well bless my evening bread!” Caerlund exclaimed. “I’ve lived here my whole life, thirty seven years, and never saw that my city looks like a ponder of mushrooms.” Caerlund stroked his red beard in amazement.
The group erupted into pleasant laughter, while Conniker wagged his poor tail and nuzzled Arnwylf.
The Archer stepped to Caerlund and whispered in his ear.
“Arnwylf,” Caerlund said to him, “let me show you something.”
Arnwylf could see the Archer and the elf take Frea aside and they spoke to her in low, sympathetic tones. Arnwylf knew what they were telling her.
Caerlund tried to distract Arnwylf by showing him a sweet, green and red apple that only grew in the Madrun Hills.
Arnwylf watched as Frea fainted with grief to learn of the death of her father. Arnwylf, weak and in pain, quickly limped to her side, but the Archer already had caught her and was gently rousing her. All were awkwardly silent. Arnwylf reached out and took Frea’s hand.
“You will always have a family with us,” Arnwylf bravely said. Frea’s eyes were filled with both affection and immeasurable grief.
The group all stood in still respect for Haergill, the King of the Northern Kingdom of Man, but most importantly loving father to his daughter Frea.
Then Caerlund started with a sudden realization. “Ah!” He cried, “Have I something to show you!”
Caerlund led the group to a cluster of large mushroom shaped buildings all leaning together. Caerlund produced a key, and opened two huge, reinforced oak doors.
“This must be the castle,” Arnwylf said.
“Aye,” Caerlund said with a twinkle in his eye as he pushed the massive doors open. They walked into a beautiful courtyard, adorned with potted plants and soft chairs and lounges.
They then went into a foyer with a marble floor that shone like a placid lake in the afternoon sun. The castle of Kenethley was regal, but comfortable and simple.
They followed Caerlund through a succession of pleasant, adjoined rooms to a reinforced door, which Caerlund opened with another large key.
“I have been here many times,” the elf said with a smile.
“Since before my great grandfather, I reckon,” Caerlund said with a nod.
Inside, the group entered the treasury room of Kenethley. Brilliant gold cups and plates glowed. Silver scabbards and necklaces glimmered like moonlight. Emeralds and rubies, as big as a man’s fist, cut with elaborate designs, clustered together like bowls of fruit in ornate golden bowls.
Caerlund directed them to a large, oak chest. Yet another key opened it to reveal mounds of gold coins.
“Eh?” Caerlund proudly prodded.
Arnwylf put his hands into the trove of gold coins and let them fall through his fingers.
“Very pretty,” Arnwylf said. “What are they?”
Caerlund looked to the Archer as though he couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“He doesn’t know what money is,” the Archer said to Caerlund with affectionate amusement.
Frea looked at Arnwylf with a new love because of his purity and innocence. The elf gently put her hand on Arnwylf’s shoulder.
“Money is pretty,” the elf said to Arnwylf, “but we, of the elfkin, discovered long ago that life and love are much more valuable. See, here are many elvish coins we no longer had any use for.” The elf handled a few beautifully designed coins with the portrait of a serious elf on one side, and a mythical bird in flight on the other to Arnwylf. “We gave them to the people of Madrun because we love them so.”
Caerlund beamed proudly. Then he shoved handfuls of gold into his pockets.
“Take some, take some,” he said. “I can’t carry the whole treasure, and we might need some money later on.”
The group heaped gold into their pockets, but Arnwylf took only a single, elvish gold piece because he liked the face of the stern looking elf on the coin.
Walking back out through the castle Caerlund stopped.
“Ah!” He cried and grabbed a padded footstool. “My old favorite. I can’t leave without you.” And he juggled the small, green velvet piece of furniture with the growing arm load of other objects he couldn’t leave without.
“What was that, last night, in the sky?” Frea asked the Archer.
“I do not know, but it was no accident,” he answered.
“It was Deifol Hroth,” the elf said. “He threatened to bring the second, smaller moo
n down to earth hundreds of years ago. The elfkin thought he was mad.”
“How can he do it? Who is he?” Frea asked. Then, Arnwylf told of all he had seen in the garond encampment.
“Once he was a man, as ordinary as any of you,” the elf said with concern. “He became a friend of the elves long before I was born. They say he was bright, and learned quickly elvish ways and secrets. He found power with those secrets and with his desire for more power became possessed when he found in a secret place an evil spirit, the blackest spirit of all, Jofod Kagir. He visited destruction on all the parts of the earth, not just here in Wealdland. He was directly responsible for the dark, ignorant Fourth Age, and the loss of learning and many technologies. He channels evil powers, old and dangerous. But how he moves great objects in the heavens, I do not know. This is something new. He realized in the Fourth Age he cannot control all things, as he wanted, and so now he lusts to exterminate all life on earth to spite the Great Spirit parent, Wylkeho Daniei.”
“But why does he need to come here to Wealdland to do these things?” Arnwylf asked. No one had an answer.
“The night before,” the elf said, “I dreamt he went to my city.”
“Lanis Rhyl Landemiriam!?” Caerlund said with a huff. “He cannot enter there. No one but the elf folk can do so.” Then Caerlund turned to Arnwylf and Frea, and like a parent telling a bedtime story said, “The walls are enchanted and recognize whoever stands without. They open and close, brick by brick, if you are a friend. But, become slippery and impassable if you are a foe!”
“We are not children” Arnwylf huffed.
“I have seen it with my own eyes!” Caerlund said defensively. “I am one of the few humans to ever be a guest in the elf city!”
The elf simply smiled and nodded to confirm the truth of Caerlund's statement.
“Perhaps,” the Archer said to the elf, “when we have seen these friends safely over the Holmwy Bridge we should come back and check on your city.”
“Of a certainty,” the elf gravely said.
As they left the castle of Kenethley, Caerlund dropped his ample armload of favorite treasures in surprise to find twenty horses standing and staring at them with innocent curiosity.
“My horse!” Arnwylf cried and limped up to stroke the neck of the tan horse with the black mane that he had ridden out of the garond encampment in Harvestley. The horse affectionately nuzzled Arnwylf in recognition.
“Now,” Arnwylf said, “we can quickly ride north.”
“Not getting me on one of those beasts,” Caerlund grumbled as he gathered up his precious items.
The Archer seemed troubled.
“What is on your mind?” The elf asked.
But, before he could answer, a seagull flopped in front of them with an angry insistent squawk. It began scolding the elf.
“What does it say?” The Archer asked.
“I cannot understand its tongue,” the elf said. “This is Rebburn’s seagull which comes from the other side of the world”.
“The other side of the world?” Arnwylf asked in surprise.
“Rebburn?” Frea said.
They all immediately realized what the seagull was trying to tell them. They dropped what they had in their arms, and ran for the tower where they had left Rebburn.
They found her in the room in which Arnwylf had awoken. She was crumpled on the floor, clutching her chest.
“Careful, careful,” Caerlund soothed as he helped her onto the bed.
“I’m going, son,” Rebburn said stroking Caerlund’s cheek. “I’ve clung onto this life much longer than I should have. It’s far past my time. Touch nothing but those few things you want to take with you as you leave Kenethley,” she said with great difficulty.
“I am bringing you with us, mother,” Caerlund bravely said, and bent to pick her up.
“You must go. Now. Know I love you. And most important of all, keep your eyes on that one,” she whispered and pointed at Arnwylf, “everything depends on him.” Then she quietly died.
“Mother! Mother!” Caerlund softly cried.
“We must go,” the Archer said. “Garonds will be here any moment. They may have followed the horses across the Madronwy River.”
“But my mother,” Caerlund protested.
“She has already made her funeral pyre,” the elf said. “As she strictly counseled, touch nothing. Let us go.”
As they started down for the horses, Arnwylf noticed small glass vials of amber liquid placed in every nook and cranny.
“Do you see-“ Arnwylf reached out to grab one.
“No,” the elf said, catching his hand with lightning speed.
They quickly tied what they could to the horses and mounted just as Conniker began loudly barking.
“They’re here,” the Archer said. The late morning sun was glinting off the Mere Lanis, as twenty horse garonds rode into the city. Arnwylf slapped his horse, and he, Frea, the Archer, the elf, Caerlund and his guards clinging to their horses, rode out of Kenethley at a full gallop.
Behind them, the city exploded in a billowing fireball.
Caerlund laughed at the top of his lungs. “Funeral pyre, indeed,” he shouted, then, “mad old woman,” wiping the streaming tears from his eyes.
Not all the horse garonds were caught in the great consummation of Kenethley. Five escaped and came riding after, quickly gaining ground.
The Archer had refilled his quiver in Kenethley, and leaned back on his horse and pulled his bow. He shot and his arrow went high over the horse garonds heads.
The Archer and the elf exchanged a bemused glance.
The Archer nocked another arrow, and with a bit more caution, killed one of the horse garonds behind them.
As they got closer, they made easier targets, and the Archer was able to kill two more.
One of the horse garonds pulled in close to grab Frea, but Caerlund spurred his horse on and smashed the garond over the head with his favorite footstool. The garond fell dead as the footstool splintered.
“Gaaaah!” Caerlund cried. “You monsters will pay for that!”
The elf drew the moon sword of Berand Torler, leapt from her horse, onto the back of the last horse garond, cut his head off, then leapt in a curving, graceful arc back onto her own horse. The Archer looked over, and the two of them shared a moment of dark laughter.
“They’re not done with us!” Arnwylf cried, in the lead, pointing. In the distance, far to their right, kicking up trails of dust, more horse garonds were bearing down on them from their flank.
But, the twenty or more horse garonds didn’t charge them directly from the side. They pulled up and came in behind them.
They were more than half way to Plymonley and the center of the Madrun Hills.
The horse garonds behind them drew their swords and spurred their horses forward. Then, the Archer had an idea.
He wasn’t really controlling his horse. He was simply holding on and letting the horse follow Arnwylf’s horse. He carefully turned himself around, with the horse bumping and rocking over the uneven ground, until he was sitting backwards on his horse.
The Archer looked over, and he and the elf shared a grim smile. The horse garonds were very close, their sharp swords gleaming as the Archer nocked his first arrow. The Archer thought he saw a glimmer of recognition in their widening eyes as he pulled the first arrow. He let himself get used to the rocking sensation of the horse at full gallop. Then, he released and easily killed the closest garond, who tumbled off his horse with a Kenethley arrow in his chest.
The Archer kept shooting without missing. This new cluster of horse garonds was quickly reduced to half their number. The Archer killed two more as they topped the ridge into the Plymonley valley. His arm was remembering the great slaughter the day before and aching with pain. He shot two more as the horse garonds pulled in close. The Archer felt his arm go numb with paralysis. The elf looked over with concern. The Archer just shrugged with helplessness.
There were six
horse garonds and they came in close on all sides. Caerlund was full of anger and sorrow, and whirled his battle-axe with fury. The blade sliced a garond and then there were five.
As they rode into the Plymonley valley, they could see the wreckage of the small town. But there was also a new army of several hundred garonds who angrily inspected the large heaps of burning garond bodies from the previous battle. Ravensdred was also there.
An ear splitting scream went up as the garond army saw the riders approaching.
Arnwylf directed his horse to take their group out and around the army, who were mostly on foot. But there were sixty or more horse garonds, Ravensdred among their number. He organized his horse garonds and they charged after Arnwylf and his band of riders.
As they passed Pylmonley, they dodged a barrage of ineffectual garond arrows.
The Archer easily caught one right out of the air. They were still bad, he thought, but they were getting better. Their arrows were straighter, more refined, and their bows stronger with more pull, a worrying development.
Two of Caerlund’s men fell to the horse garonds right at their sides. They topped the ridge and were out of the valley of Plymonley, and halfway through the Madrun Hills as Caerlund and his men who were left dispatched the last horse garonds who were right up close to them. But now, they had sixty more gaining on them, led by Ravensdred.
It was almost midday.
“Look!” The elf called, pointing. Far off to the east, great brown clouds began to billow up on the horizon. Then, the elf urged her horse to pull even with Arnwylf and his horse.
“We have to run faster!” The elf called to Arnwylf’s horse. “They will slaughter us all!”
Arnwylf’s horse seemed to understand, put his head down and thundered his hooves even faster. The whole band of horses quickened their pace.
Ravensdred and his platoon of horse garonds began to fall back. He roared and kicked his horse, and they surged forward.
For about an hour the chase continued, with neither side giving ground. The Archer recovered now and then to pick off a garond, but his arm was in great pain.
At midday, the group rounded the source of the Madronwy River and had only about an hour to reach Alfhich. They were closer to safety, but Ravensdred and his cavalry would not be deterred.
The elf could see that Conniker was having difficulty keeping up with the brutal pace of the horses.
“Find a place to hide!” She yelled to him. “Then track us down in the north!”
With that, the white wolf nodded his head in understanding, and peeled off to the west. Three horse garonds veered off to follow him.
After about another hour with neither side gaining an advantage, they dropped into the flat, southern plain that led to Alfhich. The cluster of buildings of the fishing town could clearly be seen. But even more astonishing was the great gathering of humans around Alfhich, also visible from a far distance.
A vicious bellow went up from Ravensdred, and he spurred his own horse to a speed that would surely kill it.
The Archer saw Ravensdred ready his bow. With barely the strength to lift his arm, the Archer nocked an arrow, turned around on his horse, and shot Ravensdred in the shoulder before the garond leader could shoot.
Then the Archer nocked an arrow of Yenolah. He would never be able to recover it. But, this was a special occasion, and a rare opportunity he thought. Perhaps this is what the arrows were meant for.
The Archer carefully sighted and let fly the black, lethal arrow.
Ravensdred’s eyes went wide. He pulled his sword and swiped at the arrow as it headed directly for his head. The black arrowhead shattered along with Ravensdred’s sword, the shrapnel flying into his eyes. He fell from his horse, clutching his face. His guards pulled up to help him.
The whole garond horse platoon came to a halt next to their fallen leader. They dare not attack Alfhich being outnumbered a hundred to one by the humans. The garonds helped Ravensdred onto his horse, then the whole company turned and rode away.
Arnwylf led his band into the outskirts of Alfhich. The crush of refugees was amazing.
“Move aside!” Caerlund cried. “We need to cross the bridge immediately!”
“The bridge is fallen!” Someone from the crowd said.
Burnt pieces of the Holmwy Bridge were visible, forlorn, ruined and black protruding from the flowing light brown of the Holmwy River.
“We need to find a person named Kellabald, Wynnfrith, or Halldora!” Caerlund yelled to the crowd.
“Halldora!?” Another in the crowd returned. “Our Queen and her black haired friend have gone north to Tyny!”
“Tyny is a quick journey on these horses,” the elf said. “Can you continue?” She asked Arnwylf’s horse.
The tan horse snorted and tossed its head. They pulled away from the swelling crowd around the town of Alfhich.
As they traveled north, along the eastern shore of the Holmwy River, the stream of people also traveling to Tyny grew.
“Look!” The Archer said and pointed off to the east.
The elf turned and saw that the brown cloud on the horizon was towering up to the upper reaches of the sky with wispy strands like a light brown mane.
They arrived at Tyny shortly after midday, in the late afternoon. Arnwylf thanked his horse for being so strong and gallant. After asking only a few times, they were directed to where Wynnfrith and Halldora were given lodgings by Haerreth.
Wynnfrith exited her tent and stopped in her tracks as she saw Arnwylf. Halldora ran, crying into the arms of her daughter, Frea.
Wynnfrith couldn’t believe the change in her son. Arnwylf didn’t know what to do. His mother seemed so strange, shocked. Wynnfrith slowly approached her son. He was thin, and seemed to be taller, more muscular, even though it had only been seven days when last she laid eyes on him. There was a new seriousness on his face that broke her heart.
“I found her,” he said to his mother. “As I said I would.”
Wynnfrith began to tear up. Her little boy was gone. There was no trace of the child, the baby. She hadn’t even said a proper good bye to the infant she loved so. Here was a man. A man shaped like her little son, tall, strange and beautiful.
Arnwylf opened his arms to his mother. She let herself fall into his lanky arms, and her tears flowed. Thank god he’s alive, she thought. She wanted to tell him of all her great love, but no words would come.
Arnwylf noticed Halldora and Frea quietly talking together, holding each other and weeping. He knew they were talking of the death of Haergill, and a part of him knew that, later, he would hate the garonds even more. But for now, he felt the warm embrace of his mother and let the worries fall away.
“Where is father?” Arnwylf asked Wynnfrith.
“He is somewhere on the other side of the river,” Wynnfrith said with sorrow. Then, all briefly told of their adventures since parting.
“We must cross the Tyny Bridge at once,” the Archer said. “If the Mattear Gram has fallen into Apghilis’ hands, all may be lost.”
“No one is permitted to cross,” Halldora said. “The soldiers of Reia have closed the bridge.”
“They will let me cross,” the Archer said.
“Let us go then,” the elf said.
“I do not think they will not let you cross, as well,” the Archer patted her shoulder. The elf smiled.
The Archer strode to the Tyny Bridge. The soldiers instantly recognized him and stood aside. But, they barred the way to the elf.
The elf backed up several paces. The Archer, looking back, had an idea what she was going to do. They locked eyes, and both laughed a smile. The Archer continued crossing the bridge. The elf walked back a few paces, then quickly turned and began to run. She was a blur. She bounded over the heads of the guards, and they didn’t even see her. She was a gentle, late autumn breeze to them. She came to stop right in front of the Archer so the guards couldn’t see her walking in front of him. The Archer had to hold his cheeks to keep from
bursting out with laughter.
And, together in the late afternoon sun, the Archer and the elf crossed the Tyny Bridge over the Holmwy River to the Western Meadowland.
