Chapter Three
Rion Ta
Haergill limped through the pasture of the Meadowlands. The vast, level grasses had more shrubs as they traveled further east, and the passage was a little more difficult. Haergill held his thick, barrel chest. It hurt to breathe. He had probably broken a few ribs when he had fallen from the stauer.
And, the raw meat wasn’t sitting well in his stomach. He was used to cooked meat, but he felt good that his family had eaten. The tall, dark green rim of trees that started the edge of the Weald was visible now. The village, Rion Ta, would be right where the forest began. Humans ruled the wooded areas. The thick canopy of interlocking oaks and arching elms was a perfect environment for ingenious and clever humans.
Haergill thought of the night Varknifl and his henchmen found him hiding in Bittel. That rainy, summer night, he had killed them all not too far from where they had just passed. Perhaps he was treading over their very bones at this very instant. The thought put him in a foul mood.
Something gnawed at Haergill, and he had to reconcile his feelings. Haergill worked his way up the line of quickly moving humans with some difficulty. He saw Arnwylf smile at him as he passed him, and returned the smile. The boy was a good person and would someday be a fine, honorable man.
Haergill passed Kellabald and they shared a grim look. With difficulty Haergill made his way to the Archer’s side. The dark haired, dark eyed man turned slightly to notice him.
Haergill spoke boldly to the Archer, “Why didn’t you use one of those black arrows on the stauer? You could have killed it in one shot.”
The Archer turned his head slightly to pierce Haergill with a sharp look, but continued on in silence.
The anger of Haergill’s race, his people, welled up inside of him. He was the son of a warrior king, but he tried to control his violent feelings. He had seen almost his whole people wiped away by useless civil wars. The wars had weakened the Northern Kingdom of Man, making the attack of the organized and swift garonds too easy, too devastating.
Haergill could feel his hands moving of their own accord and he reached out to grab the wool of the Archer’s dark green hood. In a flashing instant, the Archer held a bronze knife to Haergill’s throat, as the whole party came to a halt.
The Archer and Haergill regarded each other in tense silence, both their eyes burning. Kellabald quietly stepped to the two, but was careful not to speak or make sudden movements, which would precipitate a fight.
Haergill spoke quietly but courageously, “We thank you for saving us from the garonds, but we are free humans, and will not be treated as slaves.”
The Archer spoke in slow, deliberate tones, “The black, metal arrows are only for the killing of garonds. It is an oath I made. And I hope you will feel no dishonor in this, to you or your clan.”
Haergill was surprised. It made perfect sense, and he was immediately sorry for his anger. He was at a loss for words.
Kellabald spoke gently, “We need to make the village on the edge of the Weald before Kellth carries the sun over the rim of the earth, and Nunee ascends to follow her husband into the night sky.” Both the Archer and Haergill relaxed, but Haergill quickly held his hand up for stillness. The humans were immediately motionless.
Haergill could hear a crashing sound in the meadow. The humans quickly huddled together for protection. From all sides a herd of doderns crashed through the grass. They were compact and strong. Their muscular bodies were covered by a hide that was thick and hard like armor. They were also covered with shaggy, light brown hair and each had an enormous horn protruding from its snout, with a smaller horn behind the larger. The doderns were frightened and running from some danger. They gave no notice to the group of humans crouched together for safety. Then, just as suddenly as the stampede began, it was over.
“We need to move faster,” The Archer spoke to the group. As one, they all rose and began walking rapidly for the looming edge of the Weald.
Haergill felt both satisfaction for having confronted the Archer, and shame for having caused the conflict. His family was defined by violence and war, and Haergill had his fill of blood and anger. Now his only concern was his lovely Halldora, and their radiant daughter Frea.
When he was a boy, he remembered his young father returning from battles with the people of the Green Hills of Reia to the West. His father would sometimes return badly wounded and the whole palace would resound with prayers to Oann, the Battle God, and creator of all things.
Priests and Mages would make pilgrimages to the great ice walls to the far north of the kingdom where Oann was thought to reside with all the other gods. They would beseech the heavenly powers to heal their gravely wounded king. Nobles and Lords would look knowingly at Haergill with the unspoken mandate that he would have to lead the kingdom if his father died.
When his father became too crippled to fight, Haergill was sent out as a teenager to lead the Kingdom of the North. He held the legendary sword, the Mattear Gram, a silvery, brightly shining length of special metal, unlike any other sword. It was light and unbreakable. The sword was reputed to have been forged by the elves of Lanis and had been handed down by at least ten generations of kings.
The sword felt uncomfortable and too light in Haergill’s hands when he first went to war against the tribes that lived along the shores of Ettonne, the Great Lake to the east. The sword moved quickly, and cut through bronze, wood and flesh, as though forged by Yonne the Lord of the Dead himself.
When the Ettonnes charged the front ranks of his warriors their eyes were very wide and their faces were slack. He felt detached and horrified. The world seemed to be submerged in liquid.
The Ettonnes had long, bronze spears and caught many of his warriors before they could get within striking distance. The toll of the dead was awful that day, and the great waste of human life sickened Haergill.
The battles raged for almost nine years with Haergill at their head, wars to the West, wars to the East, and wars to the South. So, when the Ettonnes no longer came to battle, and the squat, dark faced garonds arrived, moving in arranged, cascading ranks, Haergill’s people were too stressed and depleted to resist.
Within a year, the garonds had overrun the Ettonnes, the people of the Southern Wastelands, and the Kingdom of the North itself was almost crushed.
The remaining families gathered what they could, and fled to the southeast in hopes of reaching the Weald, or sought refuge from their enemies in the Green Hills of Reia to the west. The garonds pursued and killed the humans wherever they could, until human beings were nearly extinct in all the Northern Lands.
Haergill and his family found Kellabald and his clan in a small hamlet called Bittel, set inside an island of oaks and elms on the western edge of the Eastern Meadowlands. There, Haergill, Halldora and Frea lived happily for almost two years. It seemed the violent world outside passed them by unnoticed, until the day, a fortnight ago, when the garonds finally discovered their hidden village of Bittel.
There were too many garonds to even consider fighting. It was surprising they weren’t killed immediately. After destroying Bittel, as though searching for something, they left a detachment of three soldiers to escort the shackled humans to their citadel somewhere beyond the Weald and Byland, rumored to be a great city of dark blue stones in the Far Grasslands.
The garonds spoke a clicking guttural tongue, so no information could be gleaned from their captivity, but it was guessed they were part of a new plan to capture select humans for slave labor.
Their destination, the village Rion Ta, was in sight. The thatched roofs were visible, but something was wrong. There were no curls of smoke in the handful of chimneys. The Archer broke into a run with Kellabald close at his side. The others caught up to them to discover the village completely empty. The clan searched every house and barn, but no humans were to be found.
The group clothed themselves, ate handfuls of bread and dried meat that had been left on tables, and armed themselves with spears and bronze swords that were f
ound as if dropped in fear.
“The garonds have been here,” Haergill snarled.
The Archer’s eyes blazed. “We need to get my other arrow from that elf.”
“They’ll be back,” Kellabald said quietly. “The village is still standing.”
The Archer gathered the clan in the main square of the village. “Everyone sit down here,” he said. The Archer laid out some vegetables on a cloth. “She must be hungry.”
“Put down this mutton, too,” Haergill offered.
“Elves don’t eat any kind of meat,” the Archer said. With that the Archer melted away into the shadows of the village.
He found a good spot on the low branch of a tree where he could see the whole group seated in a circle, apparently eating. The Archer nocked a flint tipped arrow, and drew it back. He let his field of vision expand, not focusing on any one spot. Any movement, however quick would be seen. The Archer slowed his breath, and his hand was as steady as stone. He could keep this position for nearly half a day.
The Archer didn’t hear any sound at all as the elf quickly, easily put her silver, crescent blade to his throat.
He heard her tinkling laughter. Her voice was like music. “Did you think to trap me?”
The Archer knew he had no time to waste. Without moving, he said, “you have to return my black arrow to me immediately. The horse garonds will be back any moment.”
Again, the elf laughed that tinkling laugh. “Are they half horse?”
“They’re the ones who scattered the doderns in the Meadowland.”
The elf considered for a moment. “You hate them almost as much as I do.”
“More,” The Archer said.
The elf reached into her shimmering, olive green tunic, and handed the black arrow to the Archer. “Where did you get these arrows? They are of elvish design.”
“I’ll tell you anything you like after the fight,” The Archer said in low, dangerous tones. He turned to see Haergill, his face pale white, standing amongst the sitting circle. The elf followed his gaze, and lowered her blade.
“Quickly,” she said.
In the square, all the clan was now on their feet. Kellabald was bellowing and pointing for the group to get to the safety of the enormous trees of the Weald at the edge of the village.
The elf and the Archer rose and ran towards the square. The rapid drumbeat of horse hooves could be heard intensifying in the distance. As the Archer and the elf reached the communal open space of the village, Kellabald, Haergill, and Yulenth joined them with spears and swords ready.
Haergill turned to see Arnwylf standing behind them. Kellabald shouted for him to go on to the trees, as the first garond horsemen broke through the thick, sheltering grass of the Eastern Meadowland.
The garonds clung to the naked backs of horses, shrieking, and swinging bronze clad wooden clubs. They were a terrifying sight to Haergill. No human ever rode on the back of a horse. It seemed as though they were malformed, unnatural monsters.
Haergill felt himself frozen with fear, and could see from the corner of his eye that Kellabald and Yulenth were similarly paralyzed with fright. But the Archer was calm and astoundingly fast. Haergill noticed how the Archer drew a black arrow from his quiver, nocked it, drew and fired with no waste of motion. He did this four times before Haergill could even draw breath. He turned to see four garond’s with arrows protruding from their faces, falling from their horses. Two more garonds continued with the initial charge.
Haergill saw the elf run past him as fast as a deer. She leapt and seemed to hang in the air, almost as if flying. Her silver blade was a whirling crescent moon that described a wide arc taking the heads of the two garonds before her, in one swipe. Spinning, she lightly landed as though she had no weight and then sprinted back to the clan.
The horse garonds halted. The rest of their group gathered in an organized line. There were at least thirty of them. And six of their number lay dead at their feet, killed in less than two breaths.
The lead garond, in the center of the line, the only one carrying a thick, oaken shield, shrieked a loud, vicious war cry. The entire line charged forward at the group. Haergill saw the Archer sight and release an arrow at the lead garond that flew directly to the center of its shield. The black metal tipped arrow went right through the oak and caught the lead garond at the throat, throwing him bodily backwards. With his shield pinned to his throat, he fell from his horse. The Archer was able to shoot one more garond dead as the line of horse garonds reached the clan.
The elf seemed to levitate with a jump and her blade cut through both a garond’s club and his skull. Yulenth cut at a garond, but only slashed at its arm.
With his spear, Kellabald caught a garond full in the mid-section and lifted him high off his horse. Haergill slashed at a garond and cut its leg clean off. It fell screaming to the dust of the village’s open square as it died in a sudden pool of its own blood.
As the broken line of horse garonds passed, two bore down on Arnwylf standing twenty paces behind the clan. Arnwylf held his sword high in defense. As the garonds swung their clubs at him, like a bolt of lightning shot from the edge of the grass, the white wolf bounded high and caught one of the garonds at the throat. The wolf landed hard, and shook and rent the garond to its death in the dirt. The second garond pulled up, and turned to take another swing at Arnwylf. But, as he drew his club up high for the stroke, a black arrow sprouted from his forehead.
Twelve garonds lay dead.
“To us!” Kellabald called to his son, and Arnwylf sprinted to the safety of the circle of besieged humans and the elf.
“I’ve used all seven of the black arrows,” The Archer shouted to the elf.
“Then you’d better be a sharper shot,” the elf shouted back.
The horse garonds were excited, angry, and disorganized. Their leader was dead and their prey was more dangerous than they had reckoned. But there were still twenty or more of them. A garond whooped a war cry and they began to ride in a circle around the group until the whole clan was surrounded.
The humans and the elf pulled together in a tight defensive group. Although the white wolf ran snapping at the legs of the horses, the deadly circle of horse garonds tightened their trap on the desperate humans.
Haergill was surprised to hear Kellabald quietly but firmly directing the small band. Kellabald waved his spear high to ward off any garond who got too close, and seemed to know when a horse garond would move in close for a strike.
“Arnwylf, on your right. Yulenth coming in fast. Elf, behind him. Haergill, on the left.” The garonds were unable to strike effectively with Kellabald’s leadership. Haergill felt a burning of pride to have him as a friend these past few years. He had known Kellabald as only a fisher, a hunter, a father, the leader of a village, and here, he was a natural general. He wished he had known Kellabald when Haergill was the king of the Northern Kingdom. The other generals and lords had bickered and fought with themselves so much it was the undoing of their whole race.
Kellabald caught a garond by the throat with his spear as it was swinging its club at Arnwylf. Kellabald dragged his punctured garond back into the rider behind it. Yulenth slashed into the surprised, second garond, nearly cutting him in two. But then the garond behind him caught Yulenth a glancing blow that nearly killed him. The Archer shot that garond squarely in the eye with a flint arrow. The circle of garonds pulled back, but not before Haergill cut deeply into a horse. The horse squealed and bolted for the grass.
“Cut the horses when you can!” Kellabald shouted.
“I need my black arrows,” the Archer growled to the elf.
“Let’s see if we can move towards those two bodies over there,” the elf said.
“Kellabald,” the Archer called.
“I heard you,” he said.
The clan slowly inched the circle closer to the two garonds killed by the Archer at the start of the attack.
The garonds were more cautious and vicious. Arnwylf was clubbed on
his shoulder and hurt badly.
Almost as if in response, the white wolf tore into the leg of that horse, pulling that rider to the dirt, dragging the screaming garond away from the thundering circle, to die in a furious storm of slashing wolf fangs.
Kellabald speared another rider, and Haergill cut the hands of a garond clean off as he swung his club at Yulenth.
The group was close to the bodies pierced with the special, black arrows. The elf sprinted out between the horses. She reached the bodies and plucked an arrow from one body, but struggled with the second. A garond peeled off from the group to kill her. The Archer sighted on him and shot him with a flint arrow in the head through the ear. The flint arrows didn’t penetrate deep and unstoppable like the black arrows, but with the right target, they were lethal.
The clan moved quickly to the elf and the Archer helped her extract the second arrow.
As soon as the Archer had his two black arrows, two more garonds lay dead in the dirt.
A mere handful of garonds now circled the group, but Arnwylf and Yulenth had been hurt. It seemed a standoff, with the garonds unable to strike effectively and the clan surrounded.
The horses were frothing at the mouth and Haergill could feel an alarming weariness in his arms. If they could drive off the last few, just kill a few, they might make for the safety of the trees.
The garonds evilly stared at the humans, unwilling to move in too close now. A garond spread his arms in pain as a launched spear pierced his body. The whole group turned in amazement to find Wynnfrith had thrown a spear from a good distance to kill the garond. Alrhett, Halldora and Frea brandishing spears they had found, stood with her.
“Go back!” Haergill bellowed. But the garonds had seen them and four broke away from the group to attack. The remaining garonds took the opportunity to close in tight on the group. It proved to be a fatal mistake for them.
The elf leap above Yulenth and, over his head, cut a garond from his horse. Kellabald lost his spear as he impaled another garond. And, Yulenth followed behind the elf and cut that garond’s head clean from its shoulders. The white wolf also pulled another garond from its horse.
Haergill broke through the deadly circle to sprint after the garonds headed for the women.
Haergill could see the four horse garonds bearing down on Alrhett, Halldora and Frea who held their spears out defensively, enclosing unarmed Wynnfrith. One garond swept Frea’s spear aside, and the garond behind him pulled Frea up onto his horse in one motion.
In mid sprint, Haergill turned towards the garond who had Frea, but then turned back as he saw the other two garonds riding together to attack Halldora. The Archer followed behind Haergill, and pulled an arrow from a garond corpse on the run. He sighted and shot dead the garond raising its club to strike Halldora. The other garond flinched away defensively, and turned to strike Wynnfrith.
Haergill leapt as high as he could, putting all of his fear of the horse garonds aside. He cut the garond at the shoulder and as it swung its club. Its arm came away from its body, saving Wynnfrith from a certain death stroke.
But, the first garond wheeled around, and caught Haergill hard on the head with his club, knocking him to the dirt.
There on the ground, with blood pouring from his nose, Haergill saw the four remaining garonds, with Frea captive, pull together and make for the safety of the tall grass of the meadowland. Haergill futilely stretched out his hand in pain to clasp his captive daughter to him. The garonds almost made the meadow, but Haergill saw the Archer extract a black arrow and shoot one more dead.
“They have Frea; we have to go after them!” Haergill heard Alrhett cry. The world was silent, and he watched the trees at the edge of the Weald quietly sway. Birds began to tenderly sing again in merciful strains. Haergill felt Halldora cradling his head, but his body was cold and numb. Haergill turned his head to see the clan gathering to watch him die.