Chapter Seven
Arnwylf
“Thank you, Caerlund. I hope we meet again in better times. May your family be safe, and your world be happy,” Arnwylf said.
“And yours, I reckon,” Caerlund returned. They clasped hands in a good, long handshake. Then went their separate ways.
Arnwylf strode forward with purpose. Although he had never been on the south side of the Bairn River, he knew he was in Harvestley, a sprawling, interconnected farmland dotted with small villages. Arnwylf also knew a main road called the Westernway Road ran through Harvestley from the Flume of Gawry all the way to the bridge over the Holmwy River at the town of Alfhich. The Westernway was well south of his home Bittel, which was why they rarely had visitors. And, also why the garond armies moving into Wealdland for the past two years had missed their little hamlet.
The leaves on the trees were yellow and red with autumn past, and winter was on the way. Fields marked off by hedge and stone walls were fallow and unkempt. The first village Arnwylf encountered was empty, and one of the small thatched roof houses had been burnt to the ground. Pens for chickens and pigs were empty. Arnwylf strode through the desolate village, headed for the Westernway Road.
He knew the garonds patrolled and used the Westernway Road extensively. If he were to find the garonds who had taken Frea, he would find them there.
Crossing a field, Arnwylf came upon the lonely remains of what he supposed was once a cow. It was stripped of all flesh, only a day or so ago. Its bones were cracked to suck out the marrow inside. It was a mess of sad, bloody destruction. The cow had been obliterated. A slick, dark, blood stain ringed the feast site. A few, small, tufts of hair from the cow clumped together in the empty field. It had been eaten raw, by many garonds at once, and it probably only took a few moments to do. All that was left were bits of bone and hair. Arnwylf drew his sword, and continued south with his blade ready.
It was late in the afternoon, and Arnwylf had passed through five empty villages. Although the sun was bright through the swiftly moving, high cumulus clouds, a cold, fall breeze drifted through the overgrown hedges and lawns. There was no overt destruction except for animal pens ripped open, and the occasional hut burned to the ground.
Arnwylf heard them before he saw them. A rhythmic grunting and clap and clop of armor faintly resounded over the flat farmland of Harvestley. Arnwylf readied himself behind a thick, dark green, thorny hedge. He had never fought before the skirmish at Rion Ta, and a sudden chill of fear made his body tremble. Steeling himself, Arnwylf peered over the hedge to see a column of thirty armed garonds marching in quick step with a group of fifteen or so humans, in shackles, stumbling in the middle of the platoon of garonds.
Without thinking Arnwylf leapt out onto the road with a scream, brandishing his sword high. The company before him stopped. Arnwylf stared at the garonds, the scream dying on his lips. The garonds gaped at Arnwylf in awe. Arnwylf stared back at the garonds.
Then with a roar the entire company of thirty garonds left their human captives, charging Arnwylf. The enormity of his situation dawned on Arnwylf. He began stepping backwards, then turned and ran away as fast as he could. Looking back he could see these garonds had something new for garond troops, swords. They ran together in ordered ranks, a wall of squat, muscular fury.
Arnwylf saw a village nearby. The garonds were fast and gaining. Arnwylf turned around a large communal hall with the garond platoon hot on his heels.
He turned around the next corner of the hall, knowing running out into an open field would be the end of him.
He seemed to be gaining some ground back and turned the corner of the great hall again. At this point Arnwylf saw the last of the garonds in front of him and noticed something unusual. The garonds, although fast, because of their squat muscular body build, had trouble turning the corner of the structure. They stumbled into each other, losing their footing. They were so clumsy as they rounded the corner, Arnwylf almost caught up to the last garond in the platoon. At the next corner the garonds in front of Arnwylf actually crashed into each other into a pile. Arnwylf had to stop to keep from running into them. At that same moment the garonds behind Arnwylf came tumbling onto him in a heap.
It was a miracle Arnwylf wasn’t stabbed or run through by a garond sword. Four of the garonds held his arms and legs as he struggled and fought to free himself. They dragged him back to the group of shackled humans.
An unfettered human said to him. “Stop struggling, or they’ll just kill you and eat you right now.” Arnwylf calmed down with these sensible words.
The unshackled human was in his early twenties, thin, bent over and had a large pointed nose. He had a nervous manner, a sickly smile, and his hands seemed to never rest. He quickly put bronze shackles on Arnwylf’s ankles and wrists.
“Stay calm. Calm. I am Ratskenner. Do what I say and they won’t harm you,” he whispered.
Arnwylf was stunned and helpless.
The platoon resumed its quick step march with Arnwylf as their newest captive. The whole day was moving relentlessly east. Arnwylf surveyed the captive humans. Frea was not in their number. But, he recognized the terrified, hopeless expressions which he and his family felt just yesterday morning, that is, until the Archer appeared.
The road became wider and more level, and although other roads and paths branched off, it was clear that this must be the Westernway Road.
No speaking was allowed by the garonds, and there was no stopping for food or water. There was definitely some urgency, but Arnwylf couldn’t fathom what it could be.
He thought about how frightened and lost he felt just yesterday morning. He and his family had been captives of the garonds in his home village of Bittel for two weeks. The garonds had ripped their village apart, apparently searching for something specific. But it remained unfound.
The fight at Rion Ta had changed Arnwylf. He knew that it was possible to fight back against the garonds. But now, too late, he knew it took some strategy and cooperation. Perhaps he could persuade some of the humans chained with him to fight back, if only he had a moment to talk to them and rouse their spirits.
The platoon had marched the whole day. It was getting dark, and clouds were moving in fast from the east. In a field next to yet another emptied village, the platoon stopped for the night.
The garonds flopped down where they were standing, and Ratskenner coaxed the humans to lie down in the straw of the field.
The night passed without rain, but the cloud cover was thick. The stars, Nunee the moon, and her companion moon, the Wanderer, were never visible the whole night. Arnwylf hoped to speak to some of his fellow humans, but quickly fell to sleep, exhausted.
The next morning, the garonds roused early and began gnawing pieces of raw meat they had concealed in leather pouches tied to their belts. No food was provided for the humans.
Arnwylf noticed that the field they had slept in still had stray grains of wheat scattered here and there. He began scooping handfuls of the grain together and handed the mouthfuls of raw wheat to the humans he felt were the most in danger, elderly prisoners and young children.
Ratskenner, who had been crouching near the garonds, took notice of Arnwylf feeding the humans.
“Hey! You! Stop that!” Ratskenner called to Arnwylf. Arnwylf looked defiantly at Ratskenner. The human keeper was becoming disgusting to Arnwylf.
A garond with a deep scar across his forehead stood and shambled over to Arnwylf. He roughly slapped Arnwylf’s hands open to see the few wheat grains he held. The garond sneered and stared hard at Arnwylf. Arnwylf was calm. Deepscar quickly raised his hand to strike Arnwylf. Arnwylf didn’t blink, didn’t flinch. Deepscar then kicked the old woman Arnwylf was feeding. The garond sneered and laughed an evil, grunting laugh as he rejoined his companions, cuffing another garond to steal his bloody portion of meat. A small fight ensued and was quickly put down.
Arnwylf decided then and there, when he was freed, Deepscar would be the first garond to be killed.
; The old woman nudged Arnwylf. “Don’t worry about him. Thank you for the food.” She looked up at Arnwylf. “I am Annen.”
The whole company was roused, and the platoon of garonds and their human captives were quick marched eastward on the Westernway Road.
The farther east they traveled in Harvestley, the more houses and hamlets were burned to the ground. The folk of Harvestley must have been a simple, merry folk, judging by the rolling, patchwork of fields, and the great halls where they gathered to celebrate the changing of the seasons. Now all that was left was an empty scar upon a once productive and beautiful land. Arnwylf noticed many stumps where mighty oak and elm trees once had spread their shady arms for the pastoral people of Harvestley.
Ratskenner moved close to Arnwylf so he could talk to him in a low voice and not arouse the ire of the garond soldiers.
“You shouldn’t feed these failures. Their fate is to be worked to death. Food is wasted on them.” Ratskenner then laughed a wheezing laugh with a wide, thin, toothy grin.
Arnwylf had no desire to speak to Ratskenner.
“I’m in charge because I am special.” Ratskenner continued. “I am the best human you will ever find. All like me. Every one of these women, even the old ones, wants me.” He laughed his toothy laugh and did a little hopping dance as he marched. “I’m from Madrun, did you know?”
“Do you know a man named Caerlund?” Arnwylf asked.
“Oh, he’s a good friend of mine, tall man, very strong. Great leader, just like me.”
Arnwylf instantly knew he was lying for Caerlund may have been a great leader, well known in Madrun, but he was a short, stocky man.
Arnwylf was a gentle person, but had a rising desire to hit Ratskenner in the mouth as hard as he could just to shut him up.
“You’re like me, right?” Ratskenner went on. “We’re strong. But you’re too young. You could learn a lot from me.”
Arnwylf marched staring straight ahead, hoping Ratskenner would just leave. Arnwylf thought about how much he had experienced in the last seven days. He felt as if he were a different person.
A young brown haired boy, about seven years old, marching next to Arnwylf, stumbled. Arnwylf reached out and caught him. The boy fainted, and Arnwylf held him up under his arm.
“Drop him.” Ratskenner hissed. “Drop him now!”
Arnwylf lightly slapped the boy to rouse him, but he was still unconscious.
Deepscar noticed what was happening, and maneuvered to come marching even with Arnwylf. He barked at Arnwylf, but Arnwylf ignored him.
Deepscar bellowed a loud snapping bark. The whole company came to a halt. Deepscar drew his sword and barked a command at Arnwylf.
“Drop him!” Ratskenner hissed again.
Arnwylf stared Deepscar straight in the eye. The whole garond platoon began to get excited, goading Deepscar to kill Arnwylf there in the Westernway Road, in the midday sun.
Then, like a miracle, a strong vortex of wind blew hard across the fields from the west. The garonds became frightened and ran for cover. The humans cowered. Arnwylf stood still, sure in his own mind.
The cone of wind ripped through fences and tossed branches in the air, spitting water, headed straight for the company. Then, as if it was intended for him, the tornado diminished as it approached Arnwylf, becoming more and more gentle, until a soft breeze kissed his face and a light shower of water fell on him and the boy, who awoke.
The garonds began to argue amongst themselves, peering sideways and pointing at Arnwylf.
The company was reorganized and the march continued. Deepscar kept well away from Arnwylf, but snarled at him, showing his sharpened teeth.
Late in the day, as clouds became thick in the sky, the company came over a slight ridge to a shallow valley where a great encampment was found. However, the massive gathering place was mostly empty.
A garond from the encampment ran up to the company, grunting and snapping. The company then moved to the edge of the encampment to bed down for the night.
As the humans lay down, the young, brown haired boy touched Arnwylf on the shoulder. “I’m Faw. Thank you,” he said, then tiredly closed his eyes, and lay down.
The whole company was weary from the grueling day’s march and sleep came quickly to all, except Arnwylf who stared up at the cloudy night sky, wondering when he would again see the stars and moons.
The next morning, Arnwylf’s third day of captivity, the company was roused, the garonds ate, refreshed themselves, and the human captives were given nothing, neither food nor water.
Then, the whole company began a quick march north along a road widened to accommodate the garond armies. Houses, villages, fields were cleared in a wide swath to allow thousands of garonds to march due north against the Weald, one of the last strongholds of humanity in all of Wealdland. The wealdkin were protected by the far reaching, dense canopy of trees that comprised the Weald. The only other place where humans were safe was far west in the green hills of Reia. The Flume of Rith protected them.
About midday, a too thin, middle aged man in front of Arnwylf began to limp noticeable. Arnwylf moved close to the man to hold his arm and give him some support. They both watched carefully for Ratskenner or Deepscar.
“I thank you. My name is Len.” The thin man whispered to Arnwylf, as they continued northward.
After several more hours of relentless marching, a rim of trees was visible in the distance. Wounded garonds lined the side of the road, and what appeared to be leaders grunted orders and pointed further down the way.
The company was then forced into a run, and the wall of trees loomed close. More and more garond troops were gathered in the road. Their broken swords and battle scarred armor were evidence of a fierce battle Arnwylf and the company was headed right towards.
As they entered the forest, there was confusion, and hundreds of troops. The company was allowed to rest for a moment as Deepscar received instructions from a higher ranked garond.
The company was goaded to their feet and even the garond soldiers were complaining in their tongue as they continued North through the forest.
Arnwylf heard the bellowing and screams of the conflict before he could see it. The road began sloping quickly downhill. The Bairn River was suddenly in view, and three great wooden bridges spanned the wide and tumultuous river.
As the company came to a halt, Arnwylf could see human archers on the northern side of the river in ordered ranks. They protected the groups of thirty or more humans at the center of each of the three bridges. The garonds had no archers of their own on the southern side of the Bairn, but many, many more soldiers than the humans.
Garond soldiers, swords high, rushed onto the bridge and slashed at the humans. But they were repulsed again and again on all three bridges.
On the south side of the river, garond soldiers massed. It was clear they were preparing to rush the bridges, and that would spell the end for the wealdkin.
Arnwylf and his human captives were put to work moving heavy carts filled with arms and supplies.
“Move! Put your backs into it!” Ratskenner screamed at the starving, weary humans.
“We’ve had nothing to eat for two days. Still yourself.” Arnwylf said to Ratskenner.
“What!? What did you say!?” Ratskenner pushed his long sharp nose up to Arnwylf’s face. “I could have you killed and eaten right this very moment!”
“If I were not in these chains I would shut you up this very moment,” Arnwylf said.
Ratskenner stared at Arnwylf, disbelieving his defiance. After a moment passed with neither speaking, Arnwylf turned his back in disgust to lift the cart he was being forced to drag.
Ratskenner whipped Arnwylf across his back. As Arnwylf turned, the sharp nosed cretin hit him again. In rage, Arnwylf lunged at his human keeper, who leapt back, but Arnwylf’s chains held him in check. Ratskenner raised his fist, shaking with rage, but he dared not come close to Arnwylf, who was ready to kill him.
Ratskenner backe
d up, with his terrified eyes on Arnwylf. He then picked up a branch lying by the road and began to whip the weak and hungry humans. But he stayed well away from Arnwylf, whose dangerous gaze never left him.
Down by the Three Bridges of Rogar Li, a great screaming and yelling was heard. The garond armies were charging the bridges. Their numbers swelled and the garond soldiers were unstoppable, no matter how many were killed by sword, spear or arrow.
On the far banks, at the end of the center bridge, a white haired man bellowed something to the garonds. They seemed to pause in their surge. Then all three bridges seemed to magically burst into flames. The garonds on the bridges tried to fight their way back as the fire intensified, but there was such a crowd of soldiers on all three bridges, it became impossible. Garonds on the bridges began jumping into the Bairn River. They were quickly drowned and swept downstream, as no garond knew how to swim, or eaten by malevolent fish.
All became panic. Garonds ran back and forth. The army was in complete disarray. The three huge, beautifully carved bridges were infernos that quickly collapsed into the Bairn. On the far banks, the humans cheered.
They began to pepper the garonds with arrows, and the garond army had to retreat to the safety of the trees on the southern bank.
But, the garonds were quick to reorganize. Leaders barked orders, and the whole army was turned back to the main encampment in Harvestley.
It was a slow, painful march, with humans forced to carry heavy burdens and drag loaded carts.
As night fell, clouds covered the night sky once again, and again no rain fell. The garond encampment was busy dressing the wounded and regrouping. The humans gathered together for warmth. Arnwylf stared up at the boiling night clouds, planning his escape.
On the morning of Arnwylf’s fourth day of captivity, a garond came around and argued with Deepscar, then looked over his captive humans, picking out the strongest and healthiest. Of course, Arnwylf was chosen, and his shackles were unlocked. He was then reshackled with a new group of men and led away. Deepscar and Ratskenner also came with the platoon of garond soldiers and captives.
The new group headed east right through the garond army encampment towards the Flume of Gawry. The humans in this new company were healthier and stronger, so the marching was quicker. By midday, the road was flat and definitely sloping downhill. After a couple of hours of marching, Arnwylf could smell the ocean. He had accompanied his father to the fishing town Alfhich once, and the thing he remembered most was the pervasive smell of fish and salt water.
There were no fields or villages now, just flat, rolling land with close cropped grass. Grazing animals must have once moved through this area regularly. Arnwylf realized they were in Byland, the entrance to Wealdland from the rest of the world. Arnwylf felt farther from Bittel and his family than he had ever been his entire life.
A roaring sound could be heard on the breeze. Soon, more garonds came into sight, and more soldiers marching west to the encampment. The roaring sound was louder and louder.
The furious sound was the Flume of Gawry. The company was stopped. All the human men flopped to the ground to rest, but Arnwylf remained standing to understand his surroundings.
They stood right on the steep precipice of a narrow channel of water rushing for two miles from north to south. The water in the flume was white, frothy, and moving extremely fast. Garond soldiers were carefully moving over the thirty yard wide flume by rope bridges. The garonds were ungraceful and frightened, so they moved very slowly on the ropes spanning the wild water.
Deepscar unshackled a human at random, dragged him to the edge of the flume and threw him in. Garond soldiers crowded the edge of the flume, laughing as the human was quickly swept away to die as the flume crashed down on the shores of the Bight of Lanis.
The company was roused and marched south along the flume. In only an hour, in the late afternoon, they came to the spout of the flume.
More than a waterfall, the flume was a massive jet of water roaring high up, out of a white chalk cliff in a downward, arcing, white cascade into the ocean below. Next to the flume, Arnwylf noticed curious structures constructed of large wooden beams meant for lifting heavy weights up the white cliffs, from the ocean shore below. And, as he wondered at the massive crane, the beams and levers began to move.
Arnwylf and his fellow humans were whipped into place by Deepscar. They grasped thick ropes and pulled, as a large wooden crate lifted off the shore below. The heavy object was wet and poured water. As the crate lifted above the cliff’s edge, Arnwylf could see within it was a large marowdowr lying on its back.
An earthquake began to roll and rumble under their feet. The earthquake vibrated right through Arnwylf’s bones, a deep resonating rumble. All the rocks and hills shook. All the humans looked at each other in a paralytic shock, helpless, fearful. Earthquakes were rare and supposed to be an expression of dissatisfaction of the gods. The whole world seemed unsteady to Arnwylf. He clutched the thick ropes not to support the huge crate, but to keep his own feet. He could feel the organs in his very body vibrating with the shaking.
The towering wooden structure trembled and shook. The great crate swayed back and forth with the shaking of the earth. Most garonds fell to their knees in terrified prayer, and some fled the great wooden crane in fear it would fall. Deepscar compelled the humans to stay at their ropes, and kept the crate from dropping. Timbers creaked and the towers of the wooden machine strained, but they held.
The shaking stopped. Then, there was a great stillness. Human and garond alike looked at each other unsure if they were still alive.
When fears were finally calmed, the lifting of the great fish resumed.
Arnwylf was surprised to see that garonds caught marowdowr, and mistakenly supposed they ate them. The crate was swung onto the cliff and released from the crane.
The humans were forced to grab braces around the crate and lift it. The marowdowr, as large as four men, slowly opened its mouth full of jagged teeth.
“It’s alive!” Someone screamed, and the humans dropped the crate. The immense fish squirmed in its wooden cage.
“Pick it up! Pick it up!” Ratskenner screamed at the men. Arnwylf and about thirty men lifted the heavy crate and were forced to quick march along the flume northward.
Arnwylf was near the beast’s head and his fear and fatigue were quickly overcome by fascination. The marowdowr had black, black eyes. Its triangular head had a mouth so wide, it could swallow a full grown man whole. Its teeth were triangular and irregular, as if it had a mouthful of knives. The monstrous fish had been unaffected by the earthquake and complacently lay on its back. The marowdowr wheezed, needing water desperately. Humans bearing buckets of water doused the beast often.
After about an hour of back breaking marching northwards, a large lake was seen, the Great Lake of Ettonne. It was light blue and swollen. Scores of white islands seemed to bob and drift in the water. As they moved closer, Arnwylf could see that the islands were actually large pieces of ice drifting in the placid water of the expansive lake.
The crate was marched right to the shore. Several other empty crates stood nearby. With directions, the humans turned the crate over so the marowdowr was upright. It suddenly thrashed to life. It’s body bucking wildly in the crate. Men were directed to open the wooden cage, and as soon as a crack was opened the marowdowr thrust through, shattering the crate, flopping towards the lake.
The garonds cheered and laughed in ugly grunts as the massive monster slowly swam out on to the quiet body of water.
Then, brown shapes popped up like corks. Merebroder gasped for breath, appearing like magic. The garonds screamed in anger as the merebroder methodically attacked the sluggish marowdowr. The garonds threw rocks and spears at the merebroder, who quickly dipped below the surface.
The marowdowr Arnwylf and the men had carried to the lake turned belly up, dead from the sudden merebroder attack in the cold, light blue water of the Great Lake of Ettonne.
A hor
se garond rode up to the company. He snapped and grunted at Deepscar. Deepscar bellowed and the whole company stood to march back west to the main encampment.
Deepscar was in a foul mood the whole way, whipping indiscriminately, and Arnwylf especially.
Night was falling as they returned. Arnwylf was rejoined with the other humans he had been captive with before. He saw Annen, Faw and Len, and they seemed to be grateful that he was once more with them. Again clouds obscured the night sky. Arnwylf fell quickly to sleep, dreaming of marowdowr and merebroder fighting in the sea.
Morning broke on Arnwylf’s fifth day in garond captivity. The garond encampment roused with the break of dawn, but the humans were left to themselves.
Faw awoke, looked at Arnwylf and said, “We were worried we would never see you again.”
Arnwylf smiled. “We were sent to the Flume of Gawry to carry marowdowr from the Mere Lanis to the Great Lake of Ettonne.”
“Marowdowr!” Faw exclaimed.
“Yes. But it was killed by merebroder who seemed to spring from the very water itself,” Arnwylf said. “Now I understand my friend Caerlund when he was surprised to see marowdowr in the Bairn River.”
“It’s true,” old Annen said. “The garonds are putting the evil fish in the rivers and lakes to kill humans.”
“You know Caerlund?” Len scrutinized Arnwylf.
“I met him several days ago. We crossed the Bairn together.” Then Arnwylf told the story of how he had met Caerlund and what befell them together.
“Well,” said Len, “He is our chieftain. We are of the Madrun, most of us.”
At this Ratskenner approached. “Quiet you,” was all he said.
Arnwylf motioned to Ratskenner to come close. Ratskenner came as close as he felt safe.
“Listen to me carefully,” Arnwylf said staring hard at Ratskenner. “See how we are all chained together?” Arnwylf indicated the mass of human prisoners. “One of us will grab a hold of you, any moment, and we will pass you down to me, and I will break your neck.” The group of humans seemed to regain their spirit and grumbled together. Terror played across Ratskenner’s face.
“Or,” Arnwylf continued, “you can find us food and water, and we may yet remember you are human and not garond.” Ratskenner stood gasping for breath, realizing the truth of Arnwylf’s words, and then scrabbled away.
Len shook his head. “He was like a son to me.”
“Him?!” Arnwylf said with surprise.
“He was of the Madrun Hills. His family was all thieves and murderers who met justice. I took him in as a boy, raised him as my own. But he betrayed us to the garond army for his station over us. They say he speaks garond. It may be he has lost his humanity,” Len said as he sank into his rueful sadness.
They were not put to work in the morning, so Arnwylf stood up above his squatting human companion prisoners to more fully understand the garond encampment. He saw that they were held on the western edge of the encampment that filled the shallow valley and grew larger every moment. Garonds arrived from the west bringing spoils, more humans, metal goods to be forged into weapons, animals to be consumed and wood timbers for their machines of war. From the east more garond soldiers arrived by the hour. Arnwylf estimated at the moment, there were over one hundred thousand garond troops.
In the late afternoon, Ratskenner clambered up to the group of humans. In a cloak, he concealed several loaves of bread.
“See?” Ratskenner clicked, “You see? I provide for my humans. I take care of you.” Ratskenner looked for approval from Arnwylf, but Arnwylf would not return his gaze. The bread was carefully and secretly divided, and furtively eaten.
Ratskenner came close to Arnwylf. “Our great leader arrives in Wealdland today to claim it as his own.”
“Who’s that?” Arnwylf asked with resentment
“The Lord of Lightning, Deifol Hroth.”
Arnwylf sat up at the name.
“He is immortal and has the very forces of nature at his command,” Ratskenner went on. “Now that he comes to Wealdland from his bluestone citadel in the Far Grasslands, humanity is through. He also comes with his great war general, Ravensdred. All must be prepared for their arrival.”
As Ratskenner said this, a great company from the west arrived, in a hurry, and with many wounded and dead garond soldiers. Ratskenner scurried away to learn where this battered company came from.
Annen leaned close to Arnwylf. “We may be sacrificed in a great feast tonight. It makes sense as to why they have kept us this long.”
“Then we must escape before that happens,” Arnwylf said evenly. Arnwylf looked down at his fetters. They were locked, and the only key to all their chains was held by Deepscar.
Ratskenner scrambled back to Arnwylf. “There was a great defeat. An archer who, aided by an elf, slew many.” Ratskenner scuttled away to help the wounded garonds.
Arnwylf was happy in his heart because he knew it was the Archer who had saved him at Bittel, and the elf who had fought by his side at Rion Ta.
The rest of the day was chaos, getting the camp in readiness for their great leader, and tending to the defeated army arriving from the west.
In the early evening a great company of nearly a hundred horse garonds arrived. Arnwylf caught his breath. A red haired girl riding with a garond was unmistakably Frea. He saw her taken to the center of the encampment and noted the large ornate tent to which she was taken.
Arnwylf watched the horse garonds carefully and realized that the herd of horses simply followed a lead horse that was thoroughly trained. The horse garonds dismounted and brought their horses to the edge of the encampment. The humans were pushed back from their nesting place to allow the horses to bed in their straw. And, a simple rope corral was set up to keep the horses from wandering. A plan formed in Arnwylf’s mind.
The evening’s clouds began to gather. A large and colorfully dressed group of garonds arrived from the east.
Ratskenner scurried up. All he said was, “Great Warlord Ravensdred is here!” Then he hurried away to see the spectacle of his arrival. The procession paraded to the great tent at the center. From his vantage point Arnwylf could see a large garond, larger than the rest, astride a massive war horse. He thought, this must be the war general, Ravensdred. But, he wore no armor, only a fine silk tunic. The warlord and his retinue entered the large tent to which he had seen Frea taken. The rest of the encampment busied their selves with looking presentable if inspected.
The garonds began to bed down and it was clear that the Lord of Lightning would come the next day, and so the feast would wait. After the horses, the humans were brought buckets of fresh water, which they drank suspiciously.
“This is to make our meat more tender,” old Annen said with a frown. Arnwylf realized that she was probably right, then began to chuckle at the grim absurdity. The hushed laugh spread to the rest of the humans, then quietly died out.
“Listen,” Arnwylf said. “I have a plan. Pass this along so we are all in agreement.” Arnwylf explained his escape plan to the rest of the human prisoners before they all restlessly fell to sleep under another heavily clouded night sky.
Morning broke on Arnwylf’s sixth day in garond captivity with a bright and blue sky. The humans were set to work feeding, watering, and grooming the horses. Arnwylf took the opportunity to carefully study the lead horse, a young, tan stallion with a black mane. The horse seemed to study Arnwylf as well. Its large, dark brown eyes were filled with intelligence. Arnwylf reached out his hand to the horse and it nuzzled him. He felt even more secure in his plan.
Throughout the day, all activity was spent polishing and organizing armor, weapons and kit. In the center of the camp a large area was cleared and set with piles of wood with stakes in the middle for roasting something.
Amongst the humans was nervousness, an eagerness for Arnwylf to give the word. But, Arnwylf knew they would have to wait for the cover of darkness to succeed. He only hoped he could put his plan into action before th
e feast began. He also needed Ratskenner to unwittingly play his part and he had been missing the whole day.
The nearby horses seemed on edge, and several times they had to be calmed. It seemed they sensed some wild, dangerous animal nearby.
In the late afternoon, from the east, more colorful emissaries, and garond war captains arrived decked in black and silver, ornate armor.
As night began to fall, it was clear the feast and reception for Deifol Hroth was to begin.
Arnwylf began to despair until Ratskenner skittered up to the chained humans to gloat.
“The Great One is coming! They say he is but moments away! Enjoy your last moments of life!” Ratskenner crowed.
“Do you think,” Arnwylf interrupted, “they will be pleased with you to find their great feast of human meat is spoiled and diseased?” Arnwylf turned to point at Annen who, on cue, fell to the dirt coughing and spitting.
Ratskenner pushed closer to inspect her. Arnwylf had carefully splattered Annen’s face with mud to mimic the pox, and her convulsions convinced Ratskenner. She was so good, in fact, with wheezing and coughing that Arnwylf considered for a moment that she might actually be sick.
“Imagine if we all become diseased. Right before the feast,” Arnwylf warned.
“No!” Ratskenner cried with fear.
“Best to separate her from the healthy stock,” Arnwylf said with a frown, disdainfully indicating Annen, who slyly winked at him.
In a lather, Ratskenner hurried away to find Deepscar.
Arnwylf turned to his fellow humans. “Be ready, be resolute, and be unmerciful,” he said to them.
The usual clouds boiled over the night sky, again obscuring moons and stars. The garonds began chanting and calling to each other in raucous lays to proclaim their prowess over other platoons in the encampment. All was excitement and an energetic frenzy filled the whole army.
Deepscar arrived, dressed with black and silver feathers platted into his hair, wearing his best battle armor, and furious. Ratskenner trailed behind him, indicating in mime and disclaiming in grunts the severe trouble.
Fumbling for his key, Deepscar pushed his way towards Annen, who had positioned herself in the middle of the human prisoners. Arnwylf gave a quick low whistle and forty angry, desperate humans piled on top of Deepscar and Ratskenner who was right on his heels. Arnwylf delivered the hard blows to the back of the head to both Deepscar and Ratskenner.
All were quickly unfettered, but held their bonds on, unlocked, to give the appearance of still in chains. Arnwylf turned to Len, “Do not let anyone leave until I have returned.”
“We will wait even if the devil himself arrives,” Len said with a firm gratitude.
Arnwylf put on Ratskenner’s mantle and shuffled as best he could in Ratskenner’s scurrying way. Just as he supposed, the garonds were too involved in preparations for the reception of their leader, and probably saw all humans as one indistinguishable type anyway.
Arnwylf was more than half way to the large, ornate tent in which he knew Frea was a captive, when, with the overwhelming beating of deeply reverberating drums and bloodcurdling screams of praise, the Lord of Lightning arrived.
The whole encampment held its breath.
An oppressive air settled over the army, as if a great, grand evil was in their presence, as if pain and torment in an intangible form had drifted into their ranks, as if their leader was in their midst. The muscular and violent garonds dropped their heads and gnashed their teeth, being spurred to mayhem, but held in check by the greater fear of their master.
The largest in their ranks clawed empty space as if killing in their imaginations. No one spoke above a whisper, but the quiet snarls were horrible vows of murder and destruction.
They worked their jaws and teeth as if devouring the very flesh of their enemies.
Arnwylf could feel the palpable danger like a weight on his chest. First, he felt his presence, then he turned to see their Commander and Lord, Deifol Hroth.
The garond soldiers pushed forward to be near him in massing crowds, but no soldier dare approach him closer than ten paces for fear of the destruction of their immortal souls.
Deifol Hroth was some distance from Arnwylf, and all he could make out was that the Feared One was, lean and slightly above average in height, wearing plain clothing of sky blue, and appeared to be an attractive, human youth in his early twenties, with sandy blonde hair. The seeming beauty of this young man struck Arnwylf, until he realized with a disquiet horror, that Deifol Hroth was rumored to be over nine hundred years old.
Arnwylf was suddenly unnaturally cold and his every instinct was to flee as quickly as possible. Looking at him, Arnwylf wanted to vomit, not in disgust, but because of the physical emanations of evil vibrating from the regal young man.
Garond leaders rose from their knees and began welcoming gestures, when suddenly, Deifol Hroth held up his hand. All paused. The Great One seemed to stand perfectly still as if hearing or seeing something beyond the boundaries of normal senses.
The next thing happened so quickly and suddenly Arnwylf doubted the reality of it. It seemed as if Deifol Hroth began a gesture, his hand moved slightly, then an intense, blinding flash of light burst from him.
All fell to the ground blind and terrified, except Arnwylf who saw the bolt of lightning continue, up from his hand and arcing out into the sky. In a moment it was all over. Screams of terror and pain began in a slow crescendo and then rose to an overwhelming orchestra of chaos.
Deifol Hroth, alone, walked quietly out of the camp, westward.
Arnwylf picked up a sword cast to ground by a terrified garond, and ran for the large tent. He made his way through the bedlam, and ripped open the embroidered front flap.
Inside were tapestries, silks, plush pillows, tables laid with fruit, and cured meat. In the center of the opulence, Frea, dressed in red gossamer and brocaded purple cotton, stood quietly contemplating a small dagger. When she saw Arnwylf, she was stunned and disbelieving, and the dagger slipped from her fingers.
They rushed to each other and clasped one another as if they would never let go. Frea kissed Arnwylf’s dirty and rough cheek again and again.
“We must go quicker than the wind,” Arnwylf said. Without question, tears flowing down her cheeks, desperately clutching his hand, Frea ran from the tent with Arnwylf.
The garond encampment was recovering from the spectacle, and Arnwylf knew their lives were in great danger. Running as fast as they could, Arnwylf and Frea made their way through the army of blinded and snarling garonds.
“Now! Now!” Arnwylf shouted as they ran towards the group of frantic human prisoners. Len leapt to his feet and grabbed the tan yellow lead horse with the black mane, and held it for Arnwylf. The humans clambered onto the horses and held on as best as they could.
Arnwylf and Frea mounted the lead horse and the whole human and horse company made their escape into the dark countryside, with a shadowed, animal following in the falling darkness.
As the last riderless horses followed the herd, Deepscar rose and fuming, leapt upon a horse. Ratskenner, also awaking, knowing his life would now be worthless, also jumped onto the back of a horse.
Arnwylf found the lead horse easy to control. He simply held handfuls of the horse’s mane, and when he pulled to the left or right, the horse followed his directions. After what seemed like a long time, far from the encampment, Arnwylf pulled on his horse’s mane to stop and confer with Len as to their intended direction. As his horse halted, Arnwylf turned to see if all the humans had made it out of the garond encampment, or if any had fallen from their mounts.
In the dark, overcast night, in the crush of milling horses, as Arnwylf called for Len, Deepscar roughly pulled Arnwylf from his horse. As they tumbled to the ground, Arnwylf’s sword went clattering from his hand over the flat stones on which they landed.
Deepscar rained heavy blows on Arnwylf’s face as he tried to escape his grasp. They rolled around on the gray rock, Deepscar p
ummeling, and Arnwylf deflecting. Arnwylf had never been taught how to fight, and the best he could do was deflect Deepscar’s thrashing. Deepscar began alternating cracking Arnwylf in the face and punishing blows to his body. Deepscar tried to rise to his feet. Arnwylf was reminded of the stauer hunt and knew that if he let go it would be the end of him, and so, clung tightly to Deepscar.
All around, the humans sat on their horses in frozen terror.
“Do something!” Frea cried, then got down from her horse.
She picked up a large stone and hit Deepscar soundly in the back of the head. He roared in pain and wheeled quickly with a backhand fist that knocked Frea unconscious.
Arnwylf, battered and bloodied, saw his sword was only a few feet away and struggled to reach it. Deepscar, on top of Arnwylf, saw what he was doing, and clamped both of his great paws around Arnwylf’s throat. Choking, turning red, Arnwylf rocked and struggled closer to the sword. He felt the world going black.
Then, as if by magic, the sword was in his hand. Without hesitation, Arnwylf drew the sword’s edge down across Deepscar’s neck. As Deepscar let go of Arnwylf to grab his own, freshly cut throat, Arnwylf thrust the sword back up and hard into Deepscar.
Deepscar jerked with paralysis, his ugly face a grimace of pain. He pulled the sword, still in his body, away from Arnwylf’s hands. He stood, snarling. Arnwylf wearily rose to his feet. Deepscar began to curse Arnwylf in garond, both his hands still on the sword’s hilt. He swayed, trying to pull the sword from his body. But, Arnwylf stepped forward, clasped Deepscar’s hands and thrusting, turned the blade.
Deepscar’s face went slack, and he fell to the flat, gray stones dead.
Arnwylf saw Faw, off of his horse, worriedly staring at him. Arnwylf raised his hand to reassure the young boy, and stumbled to Frea’s side. She was awake, and trying to tell him something. She was telling him to turn around.
Spent and battered, Arnwylf turned to see Ratskenner pull the sword from Deepscar’s corpse.
Ratskenner advanced on Arnwylf.
“You nearly ruined everything,” he sneered, that sick smile playing across his face. “But I will return with your head and the princess, and become a great hero.”
An evil light shined in Ratskenner’s eyes as he raised the sword to Arnwylf. Then, a loud, low, deep growling froze Ratskenner. Behind him yellow eyes glowed in the dark. Ratskenner tried to turn with the sword, but it was too late. Conniker bound forward, sinking his teeth into Ratskenner’s spine. Ratskenner let out a loud, shrill shriek. Then, Conniker violently shook him until Ratskenner was dead.
The humans mumbled sounds of despair and fear as the white wolf stumbled up to Arnwylf. But, the great beast began to lick his smiling face.
“Thank you,” Arnwylf said to Conniker, stroking his head. Arnwylf noticed Conniker’s tattered coat, healing gashes and badly damaged tail.
“You’ve been in quite a scrap, haven’t you, brother? But we need to get going. They are sure to be tracking us, and we are not yet in safe hands.”
Arnwylf tried to stand, but he was clearly too hurt. Frea steadied him. Len jumped from his horse to help.
“Perhaps I should take the lead horse,” Len offered. “We are in my lands now, and I can guide us to Scatterstone, a place of easy shallows across the Burnie River.”
“Yes, the pass between the Burnie and the Bairn will be heavily guarded,” Frea said. “Help me get him onto your horse, and you take the lead horse.”
As soon as Arnwylf was situated behind Frea, and Len had mounted the lead horse, a sound of a tracking party could be heard in the far distance.
“We must fly as swift as a Kipleth arrow,” Len called to the company. “Hold tight and pray to your gods!”
With that, Len spurred his horse and the whole company exploded into the dark of the night as fast as their horses could gallop.
All that black, heavily clouded night, Arnwylf clung to Frea as she rode her horse. The tracking party of garonds, also clearly on horseback were always within earshot, their hunting horns blaring.
Near dawn, the company ran down into a shallow ravine into Scatterstone. Here the Burnie River was very wide and easy to cross. The pleasant and clear water of the Burnie laughed and rippled as it played over the many smooth stones in the vast river bed. Steam rose from the softly flowing water in the dawn light. The horses bent their weary heads to drink.
“Only a sip,” Len hissed to the company. “We still have a day’s ride until we cross the Madronwy River, and reach the safety of Kenethley.” To himself Len whispered, “May it still be standing and well-armed.”
Arnwylf really felt the great beating he had received from Deepscar all the next day of relentless riding. His face and kidneys ached mightily. Once he wiped his running nose to find his hand covered with blood. He clung to Frea and could feel her strength as she rode the war horse. He smiled to himself.
“I saved her,” he said quietly to himself.
The countryside was mostly lightly wooded, rolling hills. About midday day, as they topped a ridge, they could see the garond trackers several miles behind them. It was no small platoon, it seemed the whole army was on their heels.
The white wolf stayed near Arnwylf and Frea the whole way. Conniker seemed to look up at Arnwylf with concern. Arnwylf looked down and weakly smiled to reassure his friend, but his head was hot with fever.
All that day it seemed as though their trackers were closing in on them, even though they never stopped for food, water or to rest the horses.
As the sun began to set, Len pulled close to Frea and Arnwylf. “We’re near the Madronwy River. There are several secret bridges. Fallfont Gorge is the closest. We’ll have to leave the horses. But, the gorge is steep, and if we fell the bridge, they won’t be able to follow us.”
The company galloped through forests of evergreen Yew and leafless Alder, black and ready for the winter.
As night began to fall, no clouds gathered. The light from both Nunee, the mother moon, and the Wanderer, her companion moon, was full and bright. In the dusk, they traveled through rockier terrain, climbing, always climbing.
In the moonlight, they came to a steep cliff with a thin rushing river, the Madronwy, far below.
“It’s close, now,” Len called to the company. The band of horses trotted along a trail beside the lethal gorge. Up ahead, a precarious rope and wood bridge spanned the jagged abyss, reflecting moonlight.
“Dismount,” Len cried. As soon as the humans were all off their horses they ran for the bridge. Frea and Len supported Arnwylf, who tried his best to keep up. His legs were weak and unsteady.
Behind them, they could hear the cries and shouts of the garond tracking party.
The humans skittered over the bridge in single file. Sentries on the other side helped them off the bridge as quickly as possible. Frea lead Arnwylf across the swaying bridge last.
Len stood at the far side of the bridge with a sentry. The sentry held a sword aloft to cut the supports as soon as they were across.
Conniker led Frea, who held her arms around Arnwylf, helping him to the other side. A garond arrow whistled past her and hit the sentry square in the chest.
Behind her garonds, bellowing in rage, began to cross the bridge. The garond leader, Ravensdred was in front.
“Leave the bridge! There’s no time to fell it!” Len shouted and they ran into the darkness of the Hills of Madrun with the garond army hot on their trail. Garond arrows angrily whirled all around them.
Frea, Arnwylf, and Len stumbled up to a ridge in the moonlight, when Ravensdred got a good sight on Arnwylf.
Ravensdred nocked a huge, deadly arrow and let fly. The arrow was targeted perfectly, dead center on Arnwylf’s heart. “You’ve gone far enough!” He bellowed.
Then, above in the night sky, the great, horrific terror began.