The Lord Of Lightning (Book 3) (27 page)

Chapter Thirteen

Nightfall

The small sailboat rocked on the waters of the New Sea as the sun began to sink in the west, over the thin strip of dark land that was home.

The sails continued to billow with the wind created by Frea as long as she held the Ar. Frea felt exhausted and weary. The Ar put a great strain on any human who held the palm-sized, black, cup shaped stone. Frea now knew that the Yarta, the Heart of the Earth, the Ar was never meant for humans to use.

Ronenth was silent the whole trip. Frea knew it was because he was heart broken. They both knew that Frea was for Arnwylf, had always been for Arnwylf. Just as Arnwylf had always been for her. Frea knew that Ronenth was finally accepting this truth, with difficulty, but accepting it.

Wynnfrith's silence troubled Frea more. She hadn't slept and she stared uncomfortably at Frea the whole trip. Frea wasn't sure, but it felt as though Wynnfrith was jealous of Frea using the Ar to create the wind that drove the small sailboat home to Wealdland.

Frea felt eager to be back in Wealdland. It had been almost four moonths since they left for the Far Grasslands, but it felt like a lifetime. Frea had found her own strength and resilience, living day to day, fending off the occasional garond patrol. She had become quite skilled at swordplay with the daily necessity of fighting to survive.

Frea looked down at the odd sword she had found buried beneath the sod of the Far Grasslands. She wondered who it once belonged to. How had it come to be buried? It was clearly of human design. Frea knew of the histories of humans going back several generations, but anything before the elf human wars, and the great migrations of the Skylds and Wylflings to Wealdland were simply legends.

Perhaps the elf would recognize the sword, or the race that made it. But the elf, for being only three hundred years old, was young among her people. This sword had to be thousands of years old, and the blade was still intact.

Frea could hear the crashing of the breakers and sat up straight.

"We're close," she said.

Ronenth and Wynnfrith sat up and faced the white cliffs of Harvestley looming above the foam of the surf. 

"Keep your eyes open for any vyreeoten," Ronenth said scanning the murky waters.

"There aren't any nearby," Frea said with a weary smile. The Ar allowed her to scan the waters all about for leagues. All was still beneath. The sailboat skipped over the surf, high, up out the water, it was moving so fast.

"Frea stop!" Ronenth cried just before the sailboat flew over the last wave, and slammed down on the shallow water just beyond the breakers. Water sprayed up in an enormous halo as the small boat hit the sand beneath the shallows hard, cracking and shattering with the landing.

A wave came right behind, submerged all three, and swamped the fractured sailboat.

Frea felt herself turning with the pulsing wave. She desperately clutched the Ar, not wanting to lose the precious stone in the pounding waves. A hand grabbed her by her collar and pulled her up out of the water. Wynnfrith faced Frea.

"Do you still have it?" Wynnfrith desperately asked, searching and pawing to see if Frea still held the Ar.

Frea could only cough and nod.

"Let me take it," Wynnfrith said. Frea pulled her hands away and glared at Wynnfrith. Inexplicably she felt anger and violence towards her old friend. Frea roughly pushed Wynnfrith away.

"Give it to me!" Wynnfrith yelled at Frea, and threw her down into the water. Wynnfrith was immediately on top of Frea pushing her down into the surf, drowning her, all the while snatching at her hands to get the Ar.

Ronenth waded over, his arms full, clutching to his chest the canvas pack that held his paricale.

"What are you doing?" Ronenth yelled at Wynnfrith. He forcibly pulled Wynnfrith off of Frea with a free hand. "What is going on?" He yelled at Frea who coughed as she tried to catch her breath, rising out of the surf.

The two women stopped and stared at each other in disbelief.

"Take it," Frea said pushing the leather bundle at Wynnfrith. Wynnfrith just shook her head and gripped both her hands as though she was trying to control them.

"You take it," Frea said to Ronenth, holding out the Ar wrapped in the piece of leather.

"I felt the power of this... thing, the moment I found you in the Far Grasslands," Ronenth said, "It frightens me."

"I- we have carried it for over three moonths," Frea said. "I don't think I can carry it a moment longer. It was never meant for a human to carry the Heart of the Earth. I know that now."

Ronenth hesitated, then took the Ar, wrapped in leather, from Frea. He immediately sank to his knees in the water. It felt as though someone had piled four sacks of grain into his arms. And not only that, a great, inexplicable, euphoric drowsiness descended on his mind. Frea and Wynnfrith each took one of Ronenth's arms and helped him to the beach. The three sat on the sand, night falling, catching their breaths. Ronenth sat with the Ar, still wrapped in leather, cradled in both hands, in his lap. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be in a trance.

"We need to get off the beach," Frea finally said, looking all about. She hoisted Ronenth's pack containing his paricale over one shoulder, and with her free hand, helped Ronenth to his feet. Ronenth stumbled like a man walking in his sleep.

"He can't continue to bear it," Wynnfrith said as they climbed one of the many zigzagging paths carved into the face of the white cliffs of Harvestley. "Can't you feel it? It is worse for men. That is why the garond race only ever entrusted the Yarta to a female leader."

Frea knew Wynnfrith was right, but she was afraid to agree with her. She thought about almost coming to blows with Wynnfrith back in the surf, and realized the Ar was stronger here in Wealdland. Frea could feel the power of the Ar enveloping, seducing, reshaping Ronenth. She didn't want to carry the black stone, but she also knew she couldn't let Ronenth carry it either.

Frea looked over at Wynnfrith as they reached the top of the cliff. She wondered if she could trust Wynnfrith to carry the Heart of Earth. And why did Wynnfrith so desperately want to give the Ar to Arnwylf, if it was dangerous in the hands of men? Was Arnwylf so different that he would be able to withstand the power that was crushing Ronenth?

"Let us camp here for the night," Frea said. "If enemies come from Harvestley, we can flee down the cliff."

"And if they come from below, we can flee inland," Wynnfrith said. "Wise."

Wynnfrith sat Ronenth down and reached to take the Ar from his hands. Frea quickly moved forward and snatched the Ar out of Ronenth's hands. She immediately felt the power of the Ar like a shock. Wynnfrith also had a look of sudden hurt, and Frea thought Wynnfrith might attack her for the Ar.

But Ronenth roused and leaned in to hold Frea's shoulders in gratitude. "How have you borne that thing for three moonths?" Ronenth said, shaking his clearing head.

Frea carefully watched Wynnfrith retreat, a look of darkness on her face. She dare not attack with Ronenth ready and able to stop her. Frea looked down and frowned. What am I thinking, she thought to herself. Wynnfrith is like a mother to me. She was part of our little village of Bittel, best friend to my mother, Halldora. Wynnfrith would never hurt me.

The weight of the Ar, the incessant hum of life, the pin points of light that sparked with the energy of the living, that drove into the mind like hammered nails, the thrumming lines of power playing up from the center of the earth began to edge into Frea's consciousness. She felt her strength begin to wane. It wasn't as bad as it usually was, but the strain was there, nonetheless. She looked up and saw Wynnfrith keenly watching her, eyes large, like a predator waiting for its prey to make the move that would end its life.

"We should all sleep now," Frea groggily said. "Just a little, then we can continue on in the night."

"I agree," Ronenth as he rested his heavy head on his canvas pack. "Just a little sleep."

"Will you sleep, Wynnfrith?" Frea asked, her eyes becoming too heavy to keep open.

"Yes," Wynnfrith lied. "I will sleep. The Ar is safe in your hands. I don't want it."

Frea and Ronenth were soon quickly breathing heavily, fast asleep. A pained expression creased Frea's slumbering brow, a sign that the Ar was weighing on her very soul. Wynnfrith knew Frea would be immediately caught in the throes of nightmares because of the Ar.

Wynnfrith clenched her hands. She looked up at the stars, tears streamed down her cheeks. She shook her head, muttered to herself, and then crawled quietly next to Frea.

Wynnfrith slowly pulled the leather wrapped Ar out of Frea's hands. Frea immediately looked as though a deep pain had been relieved, and fell deeper into sleep.

Wynnfrith rose, moving with stealth, and quietly stole away from Frea and Ronenth.

Wynnfrith ran through the stunted spring grass. The night sky was clear and the stars shone with a fiery brilliance. Neither moon had risen, so the blue light of the stars washed the whole world. Every shadow was a deep blackness.

A strong wind whipped over Wynnfrith's head. She turned and looked over her shoulder, but there was no human, garond or animal in sight. The whole world was empty and devoid of pity.

Wynnfrith ran until she reached the Westernway Road. The highway was flat and even dirt, trampled by thousands of human feet for centuries.

Wynnfrith stopped and turned looking in all directions. Harvestley was featureless and barren. Several years ago it was the bread basket of Wealdland. Prosperous farms yielded the bounty of the earth. The garond army invaded through Byland, the now shattered land bridge, and Harvestley was the first to fall. The other kingdoms of Wealdland didn't even know about the decimation of Harvestley so complete was the destruction. Anyone who traveled east on the Westernway Road would soon find themselves in the great garond encampment and that would be the end of them. After the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands, the great garond encampment was abandoned with their defeat.

Now, Harvestley was a forsaken waste, empty of even graves and headstones, a stark, merciless desolation with a few blasted foundations to mark the passing of a whole race.

Wynnfrith paused for breath on the Westernway Road. She had come to a crossroad and had no idea where to go next. Over three moonths ago, her farsight, the ability to see into the future, told her that she had to go to the Far Grasslands to get the Ar and bring it back to Arnwylf. But, the Dark One had taken her power with the elvish crystal, the Lhalíi, and so now she was forever blind to the future.

Wynnfrith's whole childhood had been edged with the fresh blood of the horrors of war. She tried to think of a time before the wars against Lord Ergester and the other Lords of the Eaststand. She couldn't seem to remember the younger, happier times, before uncles, and the fathers and sons of friends were borne home on the backs of horses, blood seeping through cloths covering the butchered wreckage of their bodies. And so many, so many trips to the gloomy part of the forests of the Weald that were the burial grounds of the wealdkin. She knew that part of the woods only too well.

And then, the everlasting carnage was punctuated with witnessing the assassination of her father, King Bosruss. Then the fear and flight that pushed her young mind to the brink of sanity was suddenly swept away in the safe and comforting arms of the young man living alone in Bittel.

"Kellabald," Wynnfrith whispered to herself through her anguished tears, as though imploring some Greater Power to guide, if nothing else, forgive, at least.

Wynnfrith unfolded the leather bundle in her hands and looked down at the Ar. The black, cup shaped stone, small enough to fit in the palm of one's hand, reflected no starlight, so black was its surface. It seemed to pull in all the energy around it and refocus that power into the will of the person holding the Yarta.

So much of Wynnfrith's life had been surrounded, crowded on every side, with unending violence. When the first visions came to her, they were brief and confusing. Her mother, Alrhett, knew what they were, and reassured her daughter that the farsight visions could be a way to avoid conflict, keep safe, see the way ahead to safety. As Wynnfrith learned to control the farsight as much as she could, she felt more centered and in control of her destiny with the glimpses into possible futures that the farsight brought. But now that security was gone, gone like brave, handsome, kind, Kellabald. Wynnfrith sorrowfully contemplated the black stone.

Wynnfrith wanted the Ar. It could replace the power she had lost. But she knew this path was wrong. The Ar was not for her. She had lied and stole, and her heart was torn with torment. She didn't know what to do, and began to weep.

"It is beautiful, isn't it?" Deifol Hroth softly said over her shoulder.

Wynnfrith jumped away in shock. She tightly clutched the leather bundle.

"You left your friends," the Dark Lord purred. "You might have had a chance if you had stayed with them. But you lied, didn't you?"

"I left to save their lives," Wynnfrith said in horror.

"And now you lie to yourself," Deifol Hroth calmly said. He lifted His hand, palm out, towards Wynnfrith.

A vision appeared before Wynnfrith's eyes. It was the moments after the Battle of the Eastern Meadowlands. She saw herself kneeling next to the cot holding her dying husband.