The Archer From Kipleth (Book 2) Read Free Page A

caught his eye.
    But the elf caught site of something else and seemed transfixed.
    She leapt into the air, high, high, and touched down lightly on the haunches of a horse. No sooner had she a footing on the horse’s flank, then she leapt to another horse, unmindful of any garond still on horseback. Their swipes at her were always a moment too late.
    “It’s him!” The Archer shouted. “It’s Deifol Hroth!”
    But the elf was headed away, to the front of the garond army, which was trying desperately to break through to flee down the road.
    The elf landed in front of a garond captain who brandished an elvish sword to deadly effect. The crush of human and garond backed away from Iounelle, aware of her deadly prowess.
    “That is my brother’s sword,” Iounelle said between clenched teeth, tears of rage streaming down her face.
    The garond captain roared with sharp teeth bared in response.
    Iounelle rushed the garond captain’s horse, and with the strength of pain and sorrow, threw the horse bodily to the ground.
    The garond captain was well trained and rolled to his feet, his stolen elvish sword whipping in circles, ready to fight.
    Iounelle paced around the garond captain, unmindful of the battle raging all about them. The elf drew the sacred Moon Sword of Berand Torler and held the blade deathly still. Then, the elf paused. “These blades should never cross,” she said, and she sheathed the Moon Sword.
    The garond captain let loose an evil laugh and charged.
    Iounelle, flattened herself to the ground and then sprung up to catch the garond captain’s sword arm. Another garond rushed her from behind to aid his leader. The elf braced herself against the flailing captain, and kicked back, high and hard with both feet, and broke the neck of the garond behind her.
    “Let it go,” Iounelle said to the captain, who simply snarled and viciously pawed at the elf.
    Iounelle whirled the captain high over her hip, wrenched, and tore his arm clean from his body. The captain spattered its troops with the blood gushing from his shoulder. He clawed at his mortal wound, only to collapse, dead. Iounelle slowly wrenched her brother’s sword from the garond hand, still desperately gripping the hilt, as the shocked garond soldiers looked on in terror.
     
    “There, there!” The Archer called to Caerlund. The Chieftain of the Madrun Hills turned to see the direction the Archer pointed. Amidst the crush of garonds still on horseback. Caerlund could make out a human figure, in a swaddling cloak, one armed, the remaining arm clutching some valuable, well-wrapped bundle.
    “Get me close enough for a clean shot,” Derragen cried to Caerlund above the deafening din of human and garond clashing to the death. Then, the Archer nocked a curiously shaped, black-metaled Arrow of Yenolah.
    “I’ll have you breathing down his neck,” Caerlund huffed as his battle-axe cut the head clean from a charging garond. “To me!” He cried and all the warrior madronites hacked and slashed their way to their leader.
    “This way!” Caerlund cried and the platoon of soldiers, ringing the Archer, whose face was grim and determined, his bow and arrow held low, ready, pushed towards the Dark Lord of All Evil Magic.
    Caerlund was short and compact, but full of strength and life. His short ginger hair stuck out in all directions from underneath his poorly fitting battle helmet. His double-headed battle-axe cut down garond soldiers three at a time, like a harvester easily reaping a field. He stopped to scratch his brown, red beard, and then calmly swung his battle-axe into the main body of the garond army, where the Lord of Evil was protected by hundreds upon hundreds of deadly garond soldiers.
    “Iounelle!” A Child of Lanis called. “We need help!”
    The elf heard the sound and knew what it was. The clanking, growling, grinding, clashing could only be a paricale. The paricale was a weapon only employed by elves. There was only one left as far as