The arguing had reached a grating tone. Raile had joined in, shouting over the others that it was he who was the most qualified to lead. Jarol expected violence to break out soon and scanned the room, his eyes coming to rest on Railia. She was a beautiful woman. Would she march with the army? He turned back to find Queen Verlainia staring straight at him and winced. She motioned for him to come forward and pointed to the floor beside her throne. He walked forward and stood where instructed, his head bowed in respect. The elf chained to the throne scooted back, cowering under his gaze. The collar and chains enclosing him were etched with runes. Jarol was told that they drew the life force from the captive and fed it to the throne for the queen to draw on when she desired. Some elves possessed more magic than others, and Verlainia was one of the strongest.
“Turn around and face them, Jarol,” Verlainia said softly. He did as she ordered and a few of the lesser councilors and guests noticed. Railia noticed. “Silence!” the queen said, amplifying her voice with power. “I have chosen.” Railia’s eyes opened wide.
He turned his head and looked back at the queen. Her expression was fierce as she scanned the room. Suddenly she motioned with her head. Jarol turned back in time to see Ellitholm charging, sword held high, both hands gripping the hilt. He swung, trying to cleave Jarol’s skull in half down the middle. Turning sideways and leaning back, he felt the breeze from the sword tickle his face. Missing completely Ellitholm stumbled forward, silence gave way to the crunch of flesh and bone by steel. The sword buried in the skull of the elf chained to the throne. Ellitholm immediately pulled it free and came at Jarol again, spinning his sword in circles showing off for the crowd and giving no thought to the dead elf whose head now lay in a pool of blood.
“The queen is using you so I may demonstrate my skill to the assembly. She is wise.” Jarol refused to respond, letting him think him too slow to even draw his weapons. Ellitholm pressed him again, the sword coming at an angle harder to sidestep, so he jumped backward. Ellitholm was an excellent swordsman when fighting a duel, but this was no duel and his form was rushed, looking for the quick kill.
“You can run, but in the end, I will send you home to your father in pieces.” He lunged forward, hoping to skewer Jarol in the chest. This would do. Jarol batted Ellitholm’s sword away with his left bracer while his right fist found his jaw and spun him around. Ellitholm’s knees buckled, and he fell, face bones cracking as he felt the loving embrace of the solid stone floor. So many elves learned beautiful sword styles and never learned to use their hands. They also were not used to someone striking them and most had a weak jaw, useful knowledge when it came to fighting hand to hand. Jarol had learned only the elven rangers were an exception. Since they spent most of their service alone, they had to be prepared for anything.
“I would have thought his jaw much stronger for all the talking he does,” Jarol said. Stonehead laughed but simultaneously pulled the axe off his belt. Before he could move, Raile charged. Jarol drew his dagger, the blade reversed in a defensive position. Blocking a thrust with his bracer was one thing, but he wouldn’t take a full swing on it. It might not cut through, but the force would surely break his forearm. His dagger took the brunt of Raile’s blade; sparks flew as it slid off. Jarol kicked Stonehead in the chest, sending him flying backward and catching another of Raile’s attacks. Drawing his arm, Jarol let him think he would do to him what he had done to Ellitholm.
“Not going to work with me, boy,” Raile growled as he circled. Jarol went low, kicking out and catching him in the side of the knee to throw his balance off. A noticeable crunch followed his kick. Raile limped around in pain, his sword held too low to be on the offensive. Jarol gripped his dagger in his left hand and stepped into Raile, jabbing him in the nose with his right fist. Blood flowed freely into Raile’s mouth and beard; his eyes watered, and he hobbled back on a bad knee to put some space between them. Jarol charged and put a shoulder into his chest, knocking him down, then he turned his attention to the dwarf.
Stonehead had been helped up and everything above his beard was red with rage. Jarol addressed him. “Dwarf, you know me and you know those you sent to train me out of respect for my father and his gold. Do you wish to see the fruits of that training? I can assure you I learned everything they taught me about fighting dwarven style. I would rather not put a knot on that hard head of yours, Clan Chief.”
“That’s big talk, pup. Aye, I be knowin who trained ya and what ya learnt because I trained them. I also know we didn’t teach ya everything we be knowin.”
“Are you sure? Did you check their pockets for the extra gold we paid for additional fighting forms?” That got his attention. While Jarol hadn’t believed it possible, his face grew even redder. “Hold your place while I deal with the chief of the south first. Then I will demonstrate so you know I speak the truth.” Dwarves were greedy. It didn’t take much for Jarol’s father to convince his trainers to admit there was more to teach—for a price. Which Jarol was sure they did not share with their chief. Reaching behind him, he pulled the axe off his back. Stonehead’s eyes grew wide.
The additional training required a specific weapon: an axe with a unique design and build. It was forged as a single piece, head to grip. The head was designed with a claw built into the bottom of the edge, curving upward between the head and the haft. It allowed for grasping and twisting a sword out of an enemy’s hand. One spike extended to the rear, and another one sat on the top. Both would punch through armor. The haft was as long as a sword, with two upturned claw guards just above a grip that was wrapped in a fine silver chain and leather. The weight and expense made it unavailable to the average warrior. But not the son of a chieftain.
Raile was on his feet. His nose was broken and blood dripped off his upper lip into his beard. “You were lucky,” he sputtered.
“And if I remain lucky, where does that leave you? Do you wish your son and daughter to see your head burst open like the elf in chains next to the throne? Your clan will be in chaos.”
“Berhart will be there for Tarin as his second, just as he was mine.”
“What if Berhart doesn’t wish to be second? Maybe your wife, daughter or both will keep him warm under your furs in your lodge at night while your son cleans his boots.”
Raile paused, giving Jarol’s words some thought. Jarol’s argument must not have been strong enough, though, as Raile yelled a battle cry and charged. Jarol caught his sword on the haft of his axe and pushed it back up while sliding the blade into the claw. Side stepping, he yanked it down until the sword point hit the floor, then he ratcheted the shaft and Raile’s wrist, twisting the sword free and throwing Raile off balance. Lifting his axe, the sword slid free and rattled on the stone.
Jarol was on Raile as he took the time to spit. The bloody glob flew at Jarol’s face. Ducking, he dropped his axe and wrapped his arms around Raile’s waist, lifting him up and dropping him on his back. Jarol brought a knee between Raile’s legs, then struck him in the face again. The hall was quiet except for Stonehead’s boots coming at him from behind. Jarol did not want to be caught on his knees. His axe lay on the floor, so it was his sword he pulled out and thrust at the oncoming dwarf. He knew what the outcome of that would be, but it was what he wanted.
Stonehead saw the sword and batted it down in a rage. His momentum carried him forward as he raised his arm to strike again. Jarol lunged and grabbed Stonehead’s arm, halting his strike, and used it to pull him forward enough to get his feet on the floor. He grappled with the squat man, built like a boulder, as they both struggled for the axe Stonehead held. Jarol pulled on the haft, trying to rip it from his grasp, then Stonehead pulled with all his might. Jarol let go, and the dwarf fell on his ass. Jarol turned and picked up his axe and sword and pointed them both at the angry dwarf.
“Toss your axe aside and go stand by the queen. I do believe she values your smelly ass, so I won’t cut you into pieces. Unless you come at me again. Then she will just have to replace your stink wi
th another of your putrid kind.” Behind the dwarf, the orc chieftain was walking their way. Would there be no end to the challenges? Jarol could beat Trobar, but he hoped it wouldn’t come to that. The twins up on the dais behind the queen were smiling. Great. He took the briefest moment to look around and stepped away from the dwarf and the two bodies on the floor. Raile’s people moved his way, hands on their weapons. He had spared the chiefs, but their family and followers warranted no such treatment.
Jarol spared a moment for a plan of action. Kicking the dwarf into the orc would provide the needed moments to attack Raile’s people, knocking out Railia and killing the rest. If she drew her sword, she would lose, and warm his furs for her trouble. It was the most pleasant thought he had had in days. He was about to send Stonehead backward to tangle up Trobar when the orc grabbed the dwarf by the collar and pulled, dragging him away while Stonehead yelled and cursed everyone.
Jarol readied himself as Raile’s clan approached. Stonehead had shut up—probably on orders from the queen. The hall was quiet as one clan chief was about to lose an heir and a second and possibly a daughter. The seer would pose no danger; in fact, she stopped and held Railia’s arm, keeping him back. She said something Jarol couldn’t hear and moved away. Railia looked from the old woman to Jarol, then, to his disappointment, caught up to her brother and Berhart.
“Berhart, what are your intentions?” Jarol asked.
“We will avenge our clan chief’s name and reputation.”
Jarol let out a long, slow exhale. “You know he is alive. He can recover and try to avenge his own name. You do realize his line could end here tonight. Your name will be cursed for being the second who let Raile’s line die when there were other options.”
“You are nothing. You have cheated or used sorcery to best the chieftains.”
I spared a glance at Verlainia. She shrugged and waved me on. “Stop,” a raspy voice spoke. It was Raile, who had propped himself up.
“The Northerner is right, although those words hurt more than this broken face. My challenge is withdrawn. In the future, I may issue another for the sake of my pride.”
“And I may take your head from your shoulders. But I would rather have you as an ally.” Jarol looked to each of them, hoping they would take it to heart. Railia thought to stare him down and looked the part until he saw the corner of her mouth twitch. Jarol smiled and walked over to the queen.
Verlainia stood. “It is done. Now we vote on war. Servants, take Lord Ellitholm and Clan Chief Raile to the healers and clean the floor. I will cast their vote in their absence.” She smiled. The vote was over quickly. They would go to war and Jarol would lead them. “Tomorrow, we plan the conquest of the Southlands, but tonight we feast.”
*****
“Morgan!” Gabriella yelled. “Get yourself cleaned up for supper.”
“I’m not hungry,” he called. “I have work to do in the barn. I will find something later. Leave the scraps on the hearth.”
“Mother, Morgan is not coming to dinner. You need to go talk to him.”
“No dear, leave your brother be. If we make him join us against his wishes, it might make what you are trying to encourage even worse.”
“Encourage what, Mother?”
“I know what you are doing, Gabriella. Acting like those old women in town who are always matchmaking the young men and women. Besides, she is an elf. They do not care for our people very much. They tolerate us, yes, but they have no love for our kind.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about all of them,” Gabriella said. She felt there was something more to Alexis’s attitude toward her brother than anger. “Wouldn’t good manners dictate you make him join us?”
“If it was a girl from town, I might. But not for the elf ranger. Your brother didn’t want us to invite her to begin with. Time will sort everything out. This is a thank you from me for helping Morgan. That is all.”
Gabriella’s face bunched up in disappointed that her mother wouldn’t make Morgan come to dinner. He was her favorite—the whole family knew that. There was nothing more she could say to her mother, so she wandered toward the door. “I’m going to fetch Alexis. Be back shortly.”
Four
Morgan watched his sister walk toward the wood. He hid against the wall in the evening shadow cast by the barn door. He had expected more of an argument from her and was happy it never came. With daylight fading, he would have to light the torches soon if he wanted to continue working. His staff lay across the top of a rain barrel. He had wanted to make time to work on it and tonight offered the opportune moment. He didn’t need to watch his sister any longer; she would meet the elf in moments and have better protection than he could provide if trouble began. He went back to work.
Standing over his staff with a carver’s knife, he continued cutting vines and leaves into the wood. The vines spiraled and weaved in and out of each other from bottom to top. He left the very top uncarved, still unsure how he would complete it. The top would be the first place anyone would look when examining the staff and he wanted it to be special. He might even give it to the elf as a peace offering when it was finished. He could always make another. Thanks to the family business, there was an endless supply of material.
He remembered something his father had said to him about lighting torches in the barn. Don’t. Unless there was an emergency, or his father and brothers were home. Then he could work in the barn at night. He understood his father didn’t think him responsible enough. In truth, when his father made the rule a few summers ago, he wasn’t. He daydreamed a lot back then. He was almost a man now. He saw the way the girls looked at him when he went on errands for his parents in town. He imagined he was looking at them the same way. Still, he would obey his father and go out back and build a fire in the pit.
It wasn’t long until the flames were high and they cast a decent light to work by. He sat on a log and held the staff across his lap. Closing his eyes, he ran his hand along the contours and carvings from bottom to top. The top naturally angled forward where it had grown from the main branch. An animal head would work nicely. A wolf or fox, maybe, would look at home.
Dragon. The word simply came to him. The goddess must be somewhere nearby if words simply began appearing in his mind.
I am close.
“I am busy. Can’t you find someone else to play your tricks on? The elf ranger is here. Speak your soundless words into her head.”
But I am fond of you. Even though you are a disrespectful child.
“I apologize,” Morgan said, feeling a little foolish for speaking when he was the only one there.
The world and its children has changed in the time since the elementals decided to withdraw and sleep the ages away.
“Is that what you are? An elemental?”
It is what we are called by the elven. We are spirits of the world around you. Wind, water, ice, stone, earth, and fire. When this world was new, we were born. We are the caretakers of the world you live in.
“Well, you haven’t been doing such a great job of it. My dad used to catch me lying in the field staring at the clouds. Daydreamer, he called me. ‘You’ll never amount to anything if you keep that up,’ he used to say. You lay down for thousands of summers. Not very good caretakers, if you ask me.”
Insolent child, I should drown you and leave your body for the worms.
“Ha, I’m not by any water this time.”
But you will be, and I will catch you and hold you in my loving embrace until you breathe no more.
“I only spoke the truth. If I am to be a good son to my father, I can’t lie around and stare at the clouds or spend time thinking of pretty girls bathing in the creek. I have to be responsible and do the work he has entrusted me to do, for the good of my family and the community. How can you say you are a caretaker when you have left our world to its own devices?”
Morgan expected her to threaten him again, but there was only silence. The elemental was right; he was being insolent, but what
did she expect—him to kneel and worship her? So far, she had caused him more trouble than anything else. Most of the townsfolk believed the gods had abandoned them. There was nothing to show they still existed besides the ancient temples built in the larger cities. Not that he knew much about them. He had never traveled farther than Talon’s Station, an outpost and weigh station for goods and soldiers traveling to frontier along the river. It was named after one of the original settlers who worked on the treaty with the elves of the Black Mountains.
“Who are you talking to?” Gabriella asked, walking around the corner of the barn. The elf ranger was with her.
“No one.”
“We heard you talking to someone, Morgan. We aren’t hard of hearing.”
“No, Gabby, but you are hard of head. Now, what do you want? I’m busy.”
“You should treat your sister with more respect,” the elf said.
“Gabby, I need to talk to the elf alone. Go back in the house.”
“You are not in charge. Mother is here.”
“Gabby, go. This relates to what father talked to me about before they left. Now go inside.”
“Gabriella—Gabby—thank you again for the meal and hospitality. Let me speak to your brother in private. I have a few things to say, myself.”
“I will do it for you. Good night, Alexis.”
“Good night, Gabby.”
Morgan could hear Gabby’s footsteps going around the barn toward the house and he could tell the elf, Alexis, was listening, too. He studied the contour of the wood staff in the firelight. The elemental had suggested a dragon’s head. He would have to think about that.
The Wood Cutter's Son Page 4