The Warder

by D K Williamson

  Letting out a deafening cry, the wyggar closed on Granum and Dealan, seemingly knowing the source of the shielding spell. Dech closed rapidly and thrust at the right side of the creature. Whether by luck or instinct, the bat-like wing deflected the attack causing a long laceration on the side of the wyggar, but nothing the thick hide couldn’t handle.

  Despite causing only a minor wound, the warder’s strike did draw the creature’s ire and a counterattack. The arrow tail cut the air, a slicing attack meant to behead the knight who threw his shield into the path of the natural weapon as he ducked.

  Feeling only a slight jolt on his shield, Dech rose and turned to face the slashing tail only to see it closing in a reverse stroke. Ducking once again, he turned expecting another attack would follow. The air sang as the tail narrowly missed his head. Bringing his sword up and delivering a counterstrike, he knew he’d guessed correctly, but the wyggar had tricks of its own.

  Dech’s strike landed true, cleanly slicing off the end of the beast’s tail, but even as a pained scream came from the monster, so too did a clawed foot arcing a kick at the armored man.

  The claw caught Dech high on the right arm, snagging in the intricate rings of mail and throwing him face down into the trampled ferns behind the wyggar. Dech raged in an effort to stay conscious. Rolling in anticipation of another attack, he brought up his shield as he rose to a kneeling position and blinked to clear his eyes of grit that entered the openings in his helm.

  Dozens of arrows protruded from the wyggar’s left side, a sheet of dark blood running from the wounds over the scales and dripping onto the trampled ferns below. Even so, the monster turned and shrieking madly, went for the two mages again knowing its survival depended on drawing magic from their bodies.

  Dech stood and circled the creature from the right and once clear of the wing he charged, sword held high and shield low in case the wyggar struck again with its claws. Bellowing as loudly as the monster, the warder’s downward stroke landed just aft of the wyggar’s head, bringing the fight to a sudden end. The monster slumped to the ground with a soft thud. All soon grew quiet as the cries and bellows receded into the darkness of the forest.

  Dech slowed his breathing and drew the rage back. Looking to his right he saw relieved faces looking at the separated pieces of the wyggar.

  Lauril stood and moved to stand beside Dech. She kicked the wyggar’s skull and looked at Wherow.

  “The next time MacGorry suggests something, would you at least consider it?” she said in a harsh tone.

  The monster’s head twitched with movement, disturbing the ground cover beneath it and prompting everyone to step away while bringing weapons to bear.

  The head rolled and a white gaseous form burst from the mouth, the wraith giving up possession of the beast. With a raging scream, the wraith faded away.

  “See what can be done when we work together?” Mayhaps said, garnering quiet laughter from most.

  “Does that mean this is over?” Erie asked as he picked up the severed tail tip from the ground.

  “It does,” Lauril said. “Let us see to recovering as many of the arrows as we can. We may have further use of them.”

  “That will not be an easy or pleasant task,” one of the ghost-birds said.

  “Nor a rapid one,” another added.

  “You bleed,” Lauril said with a gesture at Dech’s arm.

  After removing his helm, a look revealed several rings of iron splayed from the talon strike, their rivets popped free. “I’ll see to it,” Dech replied. “Repair of my hauberk will not take long.”

  “Hauberk first?” Dealan said, “No, I will tend to your arm, then you may conduct your repairs.”

  “I may be of aid also,” Granum offered. “I do have some talent in the field of healing.”

  The two mages pulled Dech aside while most of the others saw to arrow recovery. Wherow prudently put three of the ghost-birds on watch knowing that few creatures would seek a confrontation with a basilisk, but at some point they would come, drawn by the smell of blood or the silence that meant the monster had vacated the area.

  Erie seemed to have some talent at dissecting monster winged lizards and within minutes, he was extracting intact arrows and bolts at a rapid pace, much to the ghost-birds’ surprise.

  Dech set his shield and sword belt aside and after removing surcoat, hauberk, and gambeson, and rolling up his shirtsleeve, the two mages examined his wound.

  “Not terribly deep,” Granum said.

  “No,” Dealan agreed. “More penetration than laceration. Infection is the main concern.”

  “Yes. Colcott’s is always a sound spell for such.”

  “I do not know that spell well enough to cast it. Nightingale’s should serve as well.”

  “Colcott’s is better for long term prevention of infection.”

  “Perhaps, but Nightingale’s is unquestionably more potent short term.”

  Dech sighed loudly. “Any reason you can’t use both?” he asked.

  “Well… no,” Granum said. “Frankly the two together should work most splendidly.”

  Dealan smiled and nodded. “Mages and their territoriality.” She gently poked Dech. “You have been keeping secrets,” she said quietly.

  “The rage, yes?” Granum said in an equally low voice.

  Dech nodded. “It runs in the family, but my father was not afflicted. I learned early on to suppress it.”

  “Are you sure it’s the rage?” Dealan asked. “I’ve seen ragers on a number of occasions. Yours is not the same.”

  “No doubt it’s is the Redewrath,” Granum said, “the old name for that which ragers tap into. I too have seen it. Blinding and murderous rage, yet you control it. The Red Wrath—translated literally—is likened to temporary insanity. It is sourced from the Ifrunn Plane in the Underealm, but where is a mystery. Hieronymus is the only scholar I know of who did any work researching it, and his was cursory. He believed it to be magic, but also theorized it could possibly be something else. Interestingly, if it is magic, it predates all others.”

  “You control how far you go into the rage state?” Dealan asked.

  “I do,” Dech replied. “I also control when it comes.”

  “Had I not felt it, I never would have suspected.”

  “Not a trace did I feel before,” Granum said. “Not an inkling and I am quite adept at sensing magical potential. Impressive and vexing. Worthy of study should we survive this junket.”

  “I am surprised the injury to your arm was not more severe,” Dealan said. “Does the rage have some preventative function? An increased rate of healing?”

  “I’ve never considered that,” Dech replied. “I have always been a quick heal.”

  “Perhaps you are on to something, Abbess,” Granum said. “I do know those fully into the Redewrath fight with grievous wounds until death. Fascinating. A largely unstudied source of magic. Yes, I fully intend to delve into this… if we are able to remain among the living.”

  “Rage healing?” Dech said both skeptical and amused.

  “Well, for lack of a better term, yes,” Granum said with equal amusement.

  As Dech recovered his rucksack and dug out the small repair kit within, Granum looked at the damage to the hauberk. Noting just one iron ring was missing.

  “A single ring and four cold rivets should do,” he said.

  Using a small plying pincer, Dech went to work.

  Mail was very much like knitted fabric, though made of interlinked iron rings rather than weaved threads or fibers. As flexible as cloth and proof against most cutting blows, mail was not terribly heavy considering the protection it provided. Spears, spikes, bolts, and bodkin arrowheads exploited the vulnerability of the system by piercing, but the use of a shield mitigated this threat to some degree.

  Flattened and holed ends closed with rivets allowed each iron ring to link to four others providing light but resilient protection. It was the penetrative force and sharpness of the wyggar’s ta
lon that managed to pierce the mail and quilted gambeson to be able to wound the warder, but wounds heal and mail could be repaired. While not a skilled armorer, knights-errant and those in the order needed basic skills to fashion repairs on their own though. No doubt, the order craftsmen would sneer at my work, Dech mused as he compressed a rivet.

  Lauril knelt next to Dech as he completed his repairs.

  “We will be ready to depart soon. You are not harmed badly?”

  “I’ll recover. Your archers did well.”

  Lauril smiled. “As did you. You are the knight Dissy learned from, yes? She mentioned it when we worked together and I see it now.”

  “I showed her the essentials of the knife and sword, the basics of the bow. She possesses natural talent.”

  “That she does. I envy Diz in some respects. She has strength, dexterity, and a natural grace that makes her as fine an archer as you’ll ever see. I had little to offer her with regard to using weapons.”

  “Are we going to continue west?” Dech asked with a glance toward Wherow.

  “I do not know. I will speak with him before we depart.”

  . . .

  After recovering every serviceable arrow and bolt from the basilisk’s carcass, everyone in the expedition gathered as they made ready to renew their trip. Stepping away from the rest, Wherow and Lauril spoke quietly.

  “What’s she saying?” one of the ghost-birds said to the elvan woman next to him.

  The woman held up a hand as she looked intently at the two as they talked.

  Seeing Mayhaps’ interest in the exchange, another ghost-bird whispered, “She reads lips and hears like a wolf.”

  “Lauril is challenging his decision to stay on the direct route, but in a politic way,” the eavesdropper relayed. “It’s not a matter of distance, but one of time is her argument,” she said.

  “Let us hope Wherow can favor sense over pride,” one of the others commented.

  “He is,” the interpreter said. “We’ll be going south.”

  “A relief, but we need to be wary of who walks the road there.”

  “A mercenary is easier to kill than a basilisk,” Erie added. “I’ll take that chance.”

  Within a minute, Wherow and Lauril returned to the party and announced the change in route and they were soon off.

  It was clear many animals were on the move, more so than was usually seen, but other than hearing animals, they successfully escaped actual encounters.

  That changed when Dealan quietly said, “I sense canids of some kind,” as they moved through a stand of evergreens.

  Hearing her, Dissy alerted Lauril and the column stopped and knelt.

  Several seconds later, the sound of dozens of light footfalls came from down the trail.

  “Fern-wolves,” several ghost-birds said simultaneously.

  “Small, numerous, and savage,” Granum said as he stood. Pulling his sleeves up to his elbows, he raised his arms and muttered in a strange tongue many in the group knew to be a druidic dialect.

  The wolves soon came within sight, but slowed and began circling among themselves, more than two dozen of the animals arriving in short order. A few raised their muzzles in the air and sniffed, others pushing their noses to the ground seeking scent as well.

  Less than a minute later, three of the wolves trotted west, the others following not long after.

  “That should do it,” Granum said as he pulled his sleeves down, garnering smiles of admiration from most in the column.

  Lauril looked to Wherow and receiving a signal, she stood and they resumed the trek south.

  . . .

  Chapter 29

  Miles away from the clearing where they fought the wyggar, Lauril brought the party to a stop at another spring, announcing, “We’re on the edges of the Brosalean. It’s not without dangers, but we are clear of the worst of them.”

  “How does one know where the Brosalean ends and the Dark Forest begins?” Mayhaps said.

  Lauril laughed. “No one does. There are no negotiated borders with marker stones, but here in the south it meshes with the Aratainian Helsh and Nevaran Dark forests like interwoven fingers.”

  “When you start seeing creatures you’ve never seen before, that’s when you know you’re in the Brosalean,” Dissy said.

  “Or notice arrows puncturing your skin,” Wherow added. “We will rest here for half an hour before we head west.”

  Instead of resting, Josip opted for finding a straight and stout sapling of the rustwood species. Locating one that would suit his purpose, he cut it, peeled its bark free, and after taking a leather thong from his pack, lashed the basilisk tail-tip to the rustwood shaft. Hefting the weapon in both hands, he smiled.

  “Beware the edges of the tail. There is a toxic mechanism that acts when it contacts blood,” Lauril said on seeing his newly created spear.

  Erie smiled cruelly. “I was counting on that.”

  She smiled and nodded. “Why did you use rustwood?”

  “It is one of only a few straight-grained species that retains its size once the moisture is gone. It also rarely arcs or twists when dry.”

  “That’s right,” she replied. “I may point out you fashion a weapon that has long been used here, dating to ancient days. Denizens of the Brosalean still use it.”

  “Point out?” Mayhaps said. “A classic form of humor, but it still has a little life left.”

  “It was not an intentional jest.”

  “That makes you a natural at humor.”

  “And that makes you a natural flirt.”

  Mayhaps provided a dazzling smile. “We have much in common. We’re both naturals.”

  “In another time and place we might discuss the issue. Now, in the Brosalean, is not either.”

  Mayhaps laughed softly. “Some things are worth waiting for, and I might point out, we’re on the edges of the Brosalean.”

  Lauril smiled at the bard. “As I said, a natural flirt.”

  The party was soon underway and cutting a course through the trees with the intent of crossing one of the east-west trails in Nevar. When they did, it was clear there had been recent traffic in the form of groups. The consensus was they were patrols.

  During a rest, Wherow considered leaving Dech’s party on their own considering they were in Nevar, but Lauril convinced him to stay until they reach the point west where the council asked him to go.

  Not long after, they came to a large cleared area dotted with old and dilapidated stone structures, ruined blockhouses from the look of them that were once part of the outer defenses for the area overseen by the Castle of the Dark Forest.

  “We must move quickly if we are to reach the castle before dark,” Dech said with a look at the late afternoon sun as they stepped from under the tree cover.

  “This ponderous group of yours is to blame for that,” Wherow said.

  “He cast no blame,” Lauril replied.

  “It’s in his voice.”

  “No, it’s in your mind.”

  “You might listen to yourself, Wherow,” one of the other elves said, “And to Lauril as well. We all need the counsel of others.”

  “We can make up the time if the trails are clear and there aren’t many patrols or pickets,” Dech said to Wherow. “As Lauril said, I cast no blame in word or in tone.”

  “Lie all you want, human.”

  “That hate will consume you one of these days. Perhaps it already has. A pity given your skill.”

  Wherow spat at Dech’s feet before turning and walking away.

  Dissy shook her head. “I’m guessing the council sent him on this mission as a test. They do that.”

  Lauril nodded. “I tend to think you are correct, though why they would do so on a mission such as this troubles me.”

  “Perhaps they test you as well?” Dech said.

  “A possibility and no less troubling.”

  Dech nodded. “Even so, I am thankful you are here to counterbalance our comrade.”


  “Comrade?” Lauril said with a smile. “That you’d think of him in such a way…. You are a strange one.”

  “He gets that a lot,” Mayhaps said.

  . . .

  The storm rumbled as it continued its way east and those in Harold’s army were happy to see it heading for the horizon.

  The air was crisp and fresh, but soon the tang of smoke took hold as burning greenwood and wet brush sputtered with fire from numerous lightning strikes. Despite the heavy rains, the fires survived and were resurging. Breezes would push the smoke clear only to have others bring it anew.

  The trodden ground within the camp was now a quagmire and those ready to do battle with Malig’s army dreaded the thought of fighting in such conditions. In Harold’s tent, a discussion was underway concerning that very thing.

  “We might move west, Sire,” someone in the gathering suggested. “Closer to the town of Taller and on ground that still has grass or budding crops.”

  “Such a place would be a muddy mess before we even had the tents unfolded,” Lord Arundel said.

  “We wait,” King Harold said. “Our position here guards the only open ground and blocks the best road from Taller. If Malig is bullheaded enough to come this far in such conditions, we’ll accommodate him. Send scouts west into the Helsh Forest and see where Malig is.”

  “If Malig should approach by road while we’re mired here, we would be at quite a disadvantage, would we not?” another in the gathering asked.

  “Sire, my seneschal spoke with some local farmers a short time ago,” Greve Gerald Moore said. “They hold the opinion the ground will support a fully laden oxcart by tomorrow morning.”

  “They know this ground like no others,” Harold said. “We wait. By eventide, our horses will be able to maneuver well enough. If Malig should come this far this day, we fight as planned.”

  . . .

  Josip and one of the ghost-birds made their way down the old cobbled surface, far narrower than it once was as time and nature eroded the sides of the roadbed. Fifty paces behind the pair, the rest followed.