Dan the Warlord

by Hondo Jinx

  Agatha laughed. “Do not worry, Dan. The blades respond to your will. Go ahead, pull them from the stone.”

  He’d seen enough weird shit since coming to this world that instead of questioning her, he crossed the room, grabbed one of the blades, and pulled. The blade slid from the rock as easily as a well-oiled sword from an old sheathe.

  “Nice,” he said, and pulled the second blade with equal ease. He slipped them into their pommel notches. Each blade locked firmly in place with a cocking sound that reminded Dan of the hammer on his lever-action .32 Special back in the old world.

  “Every great sword has a name,” Agatha said. “What will you call yours?”

  Dan only had to think for a second, recalling the main character from The Sword and the Sorcerer. Grinning down at the triple-bladed beauty, he said, “This sword is Talon.”

  “A perfect name for a perfect sword!” Agatha said.

  “Thank you so much for making this incredible sword,” Dan said. Holding Talon behind him, he drew her into a hug. She laughed, sounding very happy, and her massive breasts pressed into his chin, making him want to thank her with more than a hug.

  “You are welcome, Dan,” she said, squeezing him hard enough that he grunted. Then, releasing him and stepping back, Agatha fixed him with a look that was somewhere between sheepish and hopeful. “I give the sword to you as I give myself—wholly, eternally, and without expectation of anything in return—but I do have an unrelated request that I hope you will honor.

  So she wants more than a hug, too. Unfortunately, there isn’t time. He had to get Holly from the keep and head up to the surface, where the others were preparing to leave.

  “Take me with you,” Agatha blurted, and before he could respond, she rushed on, talking quickly. “Take me out into the valley. Take me home. Let me see my mountain, my mother, my sisters.”

  Dan frowned. “I’m sorry, Agatha. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I can’t do that. Since I failed to arrange an alliance with the Jungle Kingdom, the Duke of Harrisburg will attack this spring. I need you here, forging weapons.”

  “Hear me out,” the pretty cyclops said. “If you take me with you, I will plead our case to my family. They are incredible blacksmiths. My sisters are far more talented than I—and far more beautiful. You might even take one of them as a wife. It would break my heart, but I would be happy, too. Both you and my sisters deserve the best.”

  “You’re crazy,” Dan said, meaning to add that he would never choose one of her sisters over her, but Agatha interrupted again.

  “Or perhaps you will prefer my mother. She is unparalleled in wisdom, forge-craft, and beauty. They call her the Anvil Goddess. I’m afraid that with me you drew the short straw, Dan.”

  “That’s bullshit,” he said.

  Shaking her head, she continued. “You have a warm heart and a kind tongue, but I speak the truth. My mother and sisters are incredible. If you take me home, I will convince them to help us. I’m certain they will, especially after I explain how you freed me and lifted the cloud of death from above their heads when you killed Lady Galina.”

  “Actually,” Dan said, remembering the thump-crack sound that Agatha’s hammer had made crushing the panther shaman’s chest, “I didn’t kill that sorcerous bitch. Thelia lit her up, and you caved her chest in with that hammer of yours.”

  “I never would have had the courage without you,” Agatha said. “But now that Galina is gone, my family is safe. I will show them the mobile Fist of Fury. They will make you dozens of guns. Guns to mount on wagons, on walls. They can make anything.”

  “Anything?” Dan asked, his mind suddenly racing with possibilities. “Could they make a bigger Fist of Fury?”

  “Of course.”

  “A much bigger Fist? A howitzer?”

  Agatha squinted her single eye. “A what?”

  “A gun big enough to turn the duke’s train into a pile of steaming scrap metal,” Dan said.

  Agatha nodded, beaming with excitement. “Definitely.”

  “To Hades with it,” Dan said. “I’ll take you home.”

  “Yes!” Agatha cried, and gathered him into another crushing embrace, this time pulling his head down so that his face pressed into her huge, firm breasts. “Thank you, Dan! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You won’t regret it!”

  Ten minutes later, they reached the enormous courtyard within the central keep. Agatha had shown Dan the nifty leather sling that retracted back into the pommel of his new sword. All he had to do was apply his will again, and the sling would detach, freeing the sword, and disappear into the handle.

  So when he entered the keep, he had Talon strapped to his back. As promised, the super sharp blades didn’t even scratch him. He couldn’t keep a grin off his face.

  This is awesome. Talon is the most badass sword in the world!

  Holly knelt between the gigantic roots of the great delving tree, praying. Beside her, toppled on its side, was the gut barrow.

  Dan couldn’t help but grin at the overturned, bloodstained wheelbarrow. Not a day passed without someone requesting that he do something about Holly’s purple worms, which rumbled to and fro beneath the fortress, scaring the shit out of pretty much everybody.

  Some feared that the worms would break through the ground and gobble up a formation of soldiers. Others feared they would undermine the castle, causing structural damage. Other, even more apocalyptic worriers feared the purple worms would breed, spawning hundreds of monsters, and one day soon, a massive sinkhole would yawn open and swallow the castle whole.

  But Holly assured Dan that she had her nightmarish pets under control, and he had come to trust his tiny blond wife.

  Seeing her kneeling there, he almost called out to her but held his tongue, not wanting to jar her from her prayers. Despite her constant attention, nonstop prayers, and casting of restore tree and restore plant, the huge tree remained as dead as Holly’s long-deceased ancestors. And yet this time of prayer was important to her, so he would summon her gently from her communion.

  Holly would miss Est eel Est while she accompanied him, serving as his chief diplomat in the valley. During most of the trip, which would last weeks, he would be dealing with savage tribes, and the only diplomat he would need would be Talon.

  But he would need Holly when he met with the Duke of Pittsburgh.

  As Dan approached, he was shocked to realize that Holly was crying. Sobbing, in fact.

  “Holly?” he said. “What’s wrong, babe?”

  Holly jerked with surprise and turned to face him.

  And suddenly, the moment got weirder. Because Holly wasn’t just sobbing. She was sobbing and smiling.

  “Nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. I have wonderful news, husband. Come, come and see for yourself! You, too, Agatha dear. Don’t hang back there, looking nervous. Come, both of you, come and see the glorious thing that has happened!” She laughed through her tears, motioning for them to join her between the roots.

  Dan moved in beside her, careful not to step into the big worm hole, and laid a hand on her shoulder. “What is it?”

  “This,” she said, pointing to the ground at the base of the great delving tree. “This changes everything!”

  “Whoa,” he said, staring with disbelief.

  In several places, the dead moss sheathing the trunk of Est eel Est had turned green again—and within these patches, like stars within swaths of dark sky spied through rents in dull cloud cover, twinkled points of luminescent blue spore.

  14

  The Flames of Destiny

  Parus watched from high atop the ramparts, pride swelling in his chest as Dan and his hundred soldiers departed the castle and passed through the massive formation of new troops flanking both sides of the road.

  The sprawling formation of troops currently standing at attention was Parus’s surprise for his warlord, a going away present to put Dan’s mind at ease. As the Warlord of the Wildervast passed, Parus’s sergeants gave the command,
and eight thousand soldiers chanted Dan’s name in perfect unison. Between each repetition, they clanged sword against shield.

  “Dan!” Clang! “Dan!” Clang! “Dan!” Clang!

  The chant was deafening, an awesome display that beat on until Dan, his wagons, and riders turned westward along the road that flanked the gleaming rail, which next spring would carry a massive army into Freedom Valley.

  Parus’s sergeants and new recruits had done well. Very well, in fact, especially as the new troops were so green. So far, they had spent their days not learning to fight but getting organized, relocating, working on new shelters, and learning to soldier in the crudest sense of the phrase.

  Parus would praise them later, after they had finished the day’s training. For now, however, he would leave them to their merciless sergeants, who would drill them with all the care and compassion of torturers straight out of Hades.

  After training, ragged and rattled, the recruits would need praise.

  In the meantime, Parus would patrol the castle, check his guards, and make sure that Blivet or some other hostile hadn’t appeared in the castle.

  For the next few weeks, Parus would oversee the army, the defense of the castle, and the safety of Dan’s wives, including, of course, the True Matriarch, Parus’s own cousin, Thelia.

  “Look at you, strutting like a peacock with a ten-inch wang,” Jorbin Ateel laughed. “At least you didn’t shit your pants!”

  Parus grinned at Jorbin. The foul-mouthed old gnome had become Parus’s best friend.

  “The new troops did well,” Parus said, “which means the sergeants did well.”

  “Which means you did well,” Jorbin said.

  “I merely stood here and watched.”

  “Oh, lighten up, son,” Jorbin said. “You’re wrapped tighter than a weasel’s asshole. What are you, worried I’ll think it’s gone to your head if you crack a smile? Relax. Enjoy the moment. You’re going to work yourself into an early grave if you don’t learn to stop and smell the geraniums once in a while.”

  “You mean roses.”

  “Orc shit, I do! I said geraniums and I meant geraniums. Roses make me sneeze. Now if you’ll stop bragging on yourself, I have places to go and shit to do.”

  Parus laughed as his tiny friend swaggered away, the large ring of keys jangling on his hip. Dan had appointed Jorbin master of facilities. It suited the gnome.

  Parus turned once more to the wall. Far below, his new troops were marching toward the training fields. In the opposite direction, the rag tag force of red elves, green elves, gnomes, and half-orcs—led by a human, a hobgoblin, and a werewolf, with a cyclops along for the ride and a sylph flitting overhead—were rapidly disappearing.

  It’s up to you now, Parus reminded himself, and felt a little surge of pride—followed by a bigger surge of embarrassment. Don’t be a fool. Just do your job well and be done with it. Pride is the enemy.

  Jorbin meant well, but Parus would not stop to pat himself on the back. Nothing good came of that. Instead, he would stay focused, stay busy, and do his duty, just as he’d promised Dan.

  Glancing up, he saw a tiny red figure high atop the eyrie tower watching Dan ride off into the west.

  Thelia.

  Parus’s heart surged with pride and loyalty for his sweet cousin. And yet he couldn’t help to feel sympathy, too. Thelia looked so small up there, so alone. She would miss her husband and sister-wives.

  Perhaps her wish would come true, and the giant eagles would return. It was highly improbable—the giant eagles had abandoned the red elves thousands of years earlier—but if the gigantic birds did come back, they would certainly brighten Thelia’s days while she awaited Dan’s return.

  Parus waved his arms overhead, trying to get her attention, but Thelia didn’t notice him. Her eyes were locked on Dan.

  So Parus went about his way, checking defenses, including the newly installed Fists of Fury, and visiting each of the watchtowers before heading downstairs, where he did his rounds, patrolling the castle and inspecting his guards.

  When he reached the throne room, he paused for a drink from his wine flask. Empty like this, the chamber seemed even larger and grander than usual. Glancing toward the vacant throne, he thought, How amazing it must feel for Dan to sit there, wearing his crown. The ruler of Flame Valley.

  Instantly, Parus blushed, though he was alone and had not misspoken but misthought.

  Not Flame Valley, he corrected himself. Freedom Valley.

  For despite the great pride Parus felt in his race, he was loyal to Dan—and Dan envisioned this valley as a free land, where even red elves and grey elves might coexist peacefully. Yes, this was Freedom Valley now.

  “No,” a voice whispered. “This is Flame Valley.”

  Parus spun around, scanning the huge throne room, but saw no one. Of course, he hadn’t really expected to see anyone, had he? No—because he recognized the voice as the very same voice that had called to him in the night, luring him down to the river passage.

  “Who are you?” he called, keeping his voice low in case anyone was near. Half-orc guards often patrolled this area, and there was no telling when Freckles or one of Nadia’s orphans would pop up.

  But all was silent.

  He left the throne room and started down the hallway, pausing almost ritualistically, as he always did, to glance at the scene of the Subjugation, when the great Mooret had not only captured Flame Valley but also forced the other races to take a knee.

  Not Flame Valley, he chastised himself. Freedom Valley.

  “No,” the voice spoke up again. “Flame Valley. Come to me, and I will show you the truth. This is Flame Valley.”

  As the voice spoke, Parus moved in that direction. He had to solve this mystery. Not just for his own curiosity, which was erupting like a volcano within him, but also because there was something sinister in the strange voice, and it was his job to oversee the security of the fortress.

  He descended the stairs. Every now and then, the voice called to him again, drawing him lower, until he arrived, unsurprised, at the deepest point of the fortress, where he once more stood on the narrow walkway beside the river and stared at the very same section of wall to which the voice had earlier drawn him.

  “I’m here,” Parus said, one hand on the pommel of his sword. “Show yourself.”

  The stones laughed. “Are you prepared to cut me down, Parus? Me of all people? Have you turned your back on your people and your ancestors?”

  “I’ve done nothing of the kind,” Parus said. “I love my people and revere my ancestors.”

  “Revere,” the voice said, full of dark laughter. “And yet you call this place Freedom Valley.”

  “That’s its name,” Parus said. “Dan—”

  “Yes, yes, I understand,” the voice interrupted. “But you of all people understand that this place is Flame Valley, regardless of what others name it. Fire burns within you, Parus. A strong fire. A fire that has been handed down through the millennia. Its flames guttered low for many thousands of years, but you—you, son, and no one else—have the courage and fierceness to stoke the flames. Look at you, a powerful soldier, a general presiding over eight thousand, in charge of the greatest fortress in all the world.”

  “Dan has been very kind to me. He—”

  “Enough about Dan,” the voice said. “I did not summon you to talk of humans. I brought you here to show you the truth. The truth of this place—and the truth of you.”

  And there it was again, the crackling sound of flames and the faint smell of smoke. Somehow, both the sound and the smell were alluring, simultaneously exciting and comforting.

  “You have returned flames to Flame Valley, Parus. Now you must stoke the flames within our people."

  “Thelia already—”

  “No,” the voice said. “Thelia spread the fire, it is true. She sparked the long-dead fires once more to life, awakening our people. But those fires burn low. Thelia is, at the moment, problematic. Woefully c
onflicted. She loves her people but remains loyal to—”

  “Thelia is the True Matriarch,” Parus said, anger rising in him now. “She is a great person, and Dan is—”

  “Thelia is indeed destined for greatness,” the voice interrupted, “but only with your help. You and only you can raise a great inferno within our people. They and this place are, much like Thelia herself, destined for greatness—but only through your works, Parus. Do you love your people?”

  “Of course I love them,” Parus said. He felt strange, just as he had the first night that he’d come down here. But his paranoia had abated, replaced by curiosity, hope, and, he realized with a twinge of irony, pride.

  Yes, pride, despite his recent eschewing of that very emotion. For he knew that the voice was speaking the truth, that the fire burned more brightly within Parus than within others, and knew, too, that his people and this place could rise once more to greatness.

  “If you love them, Parus,” the voice said over the crackling of flames, and the ancient mortar between the stones suddenly glowed bright orange, as if a ball of bright fire were burning just behind the wall, “if you truly love your people, set me free. Set me free, set yourself free, and together, we will set our people free.”

  Parus’s heart was pounding. He realized that he was nodding.

  “Now, pull that sword,” the voice commanded, “and tear down this wall.”

  Parus drew his sword and jammed the point into a glowing joint between the stones. Chips of mortar flew loose.

  What am I doing?

  But rather than pondering the question, he struck again, chipping away another section of orange mortar. Then he raked the point along the seam, gouging away a long section of old mortar—and was rewarded by an intensification of both the crackling flames and the smell of smoke.

  Parus grinned at the wall and threw himself into the work, scraping and chiseling at the mortar. A fever of enthusiasm seized him. Swept into a frenzy, he scraped and chiseled faster and faster until at last, one of the stones wobbled.