The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  The ranger didn’t answer right away. Jarol wondered if they were wrong about being expected. He expected a show of force and some rattling of swords, but also expected they’d be allowed to go about their business.

  “I will let you pass, but not here. Go back till you see a game trail that will take you west to the frontier. I’m sure there is one among you who will spot it. Then bear south until you come to a road and follow it. It will bring you to the road to the capitol.”

  “You send us a long way out of our way,” Jarol said. “How do we drive a wagon down a game trail?”

  His question went unanswered. “It is either take that route, return to your queen or try to get past my companion and me.”

  “And the soldiers in hiding,” Theralin added.

  Jarol was thinking he liked the latter of the three, but it would have to wait. It was likely they would be fleeing for their lives and have no need for diplomacy.

  “Thank you. We will take the route you have offered,” Theralin replied. It was better that Jarol didn’t respond. He wasn’t happy about leaving the wagon and their supplies behind. Theralin wheeled her mount around and started back up the road. Jarol was right behind her.

  “Captain,” Jarol said. “We ride from one ambush to another. I think this is what they wanted to achieve from the beginning.”

  “I agree, but I’m unsure why. They could have escorted us to the capitol. They want us traveling this out-of-the-way route for a reason.”

  “Do we know what that road is used for?”

  “No. Had the goblins done what they were sent to do, then we might have that answer.”

  “Send the drivers and wagon back to the inn with enough coin to last a week,” Jarol ordered Theralin. “If we aren’t back by then, they should report to the queen. Let’s pack what we can on our horses and be on our way.”

  Their ride to the frontier was uneventful. They rode easy all the way, knowing they were being shadowed by the rangers. There was no way they could deviate from their given path without the rangers knowing. They rode two abreast across the open land of the frontier, posting scouts ahead and behind while everyone kept a watchful eye. All they needed now was to run into Southland soldiers patrolling the borders.

  The day wore on and they came to the game road about midday. It had two well-worn ruts from long use by wagons bearing heavy loads. Jarol threw his leg over his horse and slid off. Kneeling, he checked one set of wagon tracks. They were recent, possibly from earlier in the day. He heard a horse approaching at a run. One of the scouts reported with news that there was a camp ahead that had been attacked. There was one person alive, who was digging a hole, and three bodies, each covered in a blanket. He handed an arrow to Theralin with the markings of the Goblin Clan painted on it. She shared a look with Jarol and he mounted his horse.

  “Do you think they seek to try to lay the blame on us?” Theralin asked.

  “Is it not our fault? The Goblin Clan are our kinsmen, even the rogues. If they couldn’t catch them for punishment, I’m sure we will be acceptable substitutes. Probably better,” Jarol answered. “And we have ridden right into the middle of the mess.”

  “With some aid. This was not our chosen path.”

  “Too late now. Nothing to do but spring the trap.”

  They road ahead at a steady gallop until the camp was in sight, then they slowed the horses to a cautious walk. A boy leaned against a fallen tree that had been in the process of being cut into shorter lengths for hauling. He held an axe with one hand and slid a sharpening stone over the edge with the other. He didn’t look up at them when the horses stopped within normal speaking distance.

  “Maybe he is hard of hearing,” Stonehead offered.

  “It’s possible,” Theralin agreed. “He is certainly engrossed in his work.”

  “I heard you coming, dwarf,” the boy said. “What you’re doing here is the question. Come to survey the goblins’ handiwork?” The boy looked up with a face full of hate and tear-streaked cheeks. He stopped lapping the edge and set the stone down. His hands were covered in a mixture of dried blood and dirt. Next to his leg, another axe leaned against the log. He picked it up, now holding one in each hand. It was clear he was emotionally unstable, and the slightest thing would set him off.

  “Easy, lad. We are just passing through,” Jarol said.

  “Northman, orc, dwarf and elves. Where are your goblins, Northman? You following behind them to kill anything they missed?”

  “We aren’t killing anyone, lad. Unless they attack us first,” Jarol answered and the boy turned and walked away, dismissing him.

  “I’m going to finish burying my father and brothers. Move on. Don’t be here when I’m done.”

  “Or you’re going to, what, take us all on? A woodcutter with two axes against the eighteen of us?”

  “I’ll do what I can. After all, I just sharpened them.”

  Jarol looked at Theralin, who stared back, then gave a slight shrug of her shoulders.

  “Aye, sharpening my axes always put me in mind of dulling them again on the heads of my enemies,” Stonehead said behind them. Both turned to look at him, then turned back in time to watch the boy drag a man through the clearing and place him in the center of grave wide enough for all three to lie side by side.

  *****

  Milandro sat on terrace outside his room. His family were all at the shop working. He had claimed he felt ill for the second day in a row when in fact he was waiting for a bird to bring him news of a recent tragedy, the death of his betrothed by a band of vile goblins. A large bag of gold had been provided to ensure the news would be as he expected. He dozed in the afternoon sun until the flapping of wings startled him, waking him fully and kindling the excitement he had been holding back.

  She lives. The goblins failed. Expect her arrival at any time.

  He read it again and it only fueled his anger. She lived and there was no mention of his gold or the fate of the goblins. He would wash and dress for evening court and make plans to retrieve his gold. He could not do the deed himself or have anyone that could be traced back to him or his family do it. He hated to throw more gold at the problem, but a good assassin would cost, and three would be as much as he sent the ranger to pay the goblins. It had to be done. He had to be free of the worthless princess, so he could continue setting his plans in motion for a bigger prize.

  He had enough time to for a side trip and made his way to an inn between the walls by the east gate. Unlike many of the upper-class families, he knew the area well. His father, the current head of their wealthy merchant family, had taken him along many times on his trips to purchase goods. He had hated going. It was dirty, the inhabitants were dirty, but the visit was necessary. You need to see the merchandise and deal with the traders yourself, his father would say every time he brought him along. Well, he was doing just that.

  There was a phrase he would have to tell the innkeeper. The dragons have been gone so long. It had cost him a gold and they changed it often. He knew it as a line from an old poem. If it was still good, someone would meet him. It was early in the day and the inn had few customers at the bar. He sat as far away from them as possible at the bar and waited. The innkeeper was short and thin. His face was pockmarked, with beady eyes and buck teeth. Patchy fuzz grew along his jaw, more of a boy’s beard than a man’s. He looked if one of his line had mated with a rat some time back.

  “What’ll you have?” the innkeeper asked.

  “Wine, something red and not thinned with water,” Milandro answered. The innkeeper scowled, grabbed a mug and filled it with ale. He let it drop instead of sitting it on the bar and ale sloshed out in front of Milandro. They stared at each other, the innkeeper daring and Milandro in disgust. He wasn’t going to let the rat-faced bastard get the upper hand. “The dragons have been gone so long.”

  “Drink the ale,” the innkeeper said and walked back to the other end of the bar.

  Milandro wasn’t about to drink the swill, but
he picked it up and put it to his mouth. Turning in his seat, he positioned himself so he could see the door from the corner of his eye. Though he went through the motions of drinking, the mug was still full when someone finally walked in and sat at a table. The innkeeper approached the newcomer, took his order and returned with a mug of ale, setting it before him without spilling a drop.

  Twelve

  Theralin agreed that they had been sent to the camp for a reason. She was waiting for the trap to spring shut on them and wasn’t in a hurry to move forward. She didn’t think the ranger and his soldiers they had met at the border were going to attack them without warning, but she felt there would be another confrontation. They would be blamed for the goblin attack and the dead bodies currently being buried by a boy. It was the logical conclusion. She watched the boy work and listened to the wood around them for signs. The rangers could move in near silence, but the forest would know and from it she would receive her warning.

  The people of the north didn’t put their dead in the earth. They built a pyre and burned the body. The frozen land yielded barely enough to sustain the living; it cared nothing for the dead. The elves considered the land a living thing and the north was where it took out its anger and frustrations. Over many summers, as the peoples adapted and survived the land, the land also changed, becoming ever colder, for ever longer. Even so, as she watched a task she had rarely witnessed, to her the grave seemed too shallow. Scavengers would smell the bodies’ decay through the earth and dig them up. She slid off her horse and began walking toward the boy just as he grabbed another body under the arms and placed it in the grave.

  Theralin approached cautiously. She could offer no comfort, but thought to give advice. “You should burn the bodies. That hole is not deep enough to keep predators and scavengers from digging them up.”

  “I asked my father how deep I should dig the hole, but he didn’t answer me. He must have known a wise elf would ride down from the north to tell me,” he answered, giving her a hateful glare. “Why aren’t you gone? Get on your horse before I put an axe between your eyes.”

  “Theralin,” she heard Jarol call behind her. “Leave him be and let’s go.”

  “Yes, Theralin, go,” the boy said, stepping within arm’s reach of her. “Death rides south on fiery hooves,” he mumbled. “Come back with your friends and your advice and find me then.”

  “What did you say? Who told you?” she asked, resting her hand on her sword.

  “A voice on the wind. Or maybe it was a dream.”

  “You lie. Who told you?” Jarol got off his horse behind her.

  “I just told you. Are you hard of hearing?”

  Theralin pushed and followed him down to the ground trying to pin his arm, but he was strong and angrier than ever. He twisted one arm free of her grip and his hand went straight for her throat. She grabbed his wrist just before he made contact and grunted as she tried to pin it down. Footsteps next to her told her Jarol had arrived and would help her.

  “I have to tell you, Captain, you have a way with men. I tried so hard to get you horizontal like this but now I realize you like the young ones.”

  “Shut up and help me.”

  Jarol knelt on one knee next to her. She didn’t see him wave off assistance from the elven soldiers who moved to aid their captain.

  “I’m a little jealous, boy. You did with a few words what I’ve tried to do for six days. She won’t lie on top of me like that.” The words no sooner left his mouth then the boy broke her hold again, accidently striking her in the face. It was her turn to get angry. Reaching down, she pulled her knife free and raised her arm, thinking to bury it in his shoulder. A hand wrapped around her wrist, and it wasn’t the boy’s.

  “Captain, that’s a little excessive, isn’t it, for an accidental slap in the face,” Jarol said, smiling at her.

  “This boy knows the queen’s plans. We need to find out who he is and how he found out,” she said, trying to pull her arm free. Jarol grabbed the boy’s free arm, shifted his body and knelt on it.

  “How the hell would this woodcutter know a damn thing about our plans?”

  “He says he heard it on the wind, but I would guess the goblins must have told him. Bragging, no doubt.”

  “Is that true, boy? Did the goblins tell you anything?”

  “I haven’t seen any goblins, only their handiwork. I told the dumb elf here the truth. It’s not my problem if she doesn’t believe me.”

  “It is your problem. She is about to put a knife in you. You’re not too smart, picking a fight with no weapons in your hand. You left your axes by the grave. She is going to let you up and you will tell us what we want to know.”

  “I doubt that, because I don’t know what you want to know.”

  “We will see about that. Get off of him, Captain.”

  “Do all men speak like imbeciles?”

  “It’s a skill that you wouldn’t understand,” Jarol replied smiling.

  “Why did you stop them?” Stonehead asked from the back of his horse. “It was just getting interesting.”

  Jarol didn’t answer. Theralin was thinking the knife she held was likely to taste Jarol’s blood before the boy’s. She stood and backed away and the boy did the same. Sheathing the knife, she started to speak, but the boy charged her. Jarol moved at the same time. His fist connected with the boy’s jaw and he went down hard. “Tie him up and put him on your horse. We will talk to him later,” he said to her.

  “Someone else can carry him. I’ve had enough of both of you.”

  “I’ll take him.” They both turned to find Railia walking her horse to them.

  “That might work out in our favor. He will still be angry when he wakes, but not at her. Trobar, come and help me lay him over her horse.”

  Theralin watched them lift the boy and lay him across the horse’s rear quarters. She noticed Railia was overly attentive, hovering, or maybe admiring him. He was handsome and strong, but even younger than Jarol. Not that long ago he had probably been different, happy instead of angry and lashing out. If Railia could get him to talk and get the angry fire inside him cooled before they departed for the journey home, then maybe Theralin would keep him. She had one servant to take care of things in her home and didn’t need another, but she had needs and a slave would be preferred over an equal. She had no intention of resigning her position as captain of the guard and bearing children for some minor noble; to her, that sounded like slavery.

  She rationalized his life would be far better with her. He would be alive, for one, instead of dead on a battlefield. Given time to mature and an education, he would keep her entertained for forty full seasons or longer before she would have to think about replacing him. The girl Railia would give her no problem. There was an order to things and she was nowhere near the top. She could make eyes at him all she wanted, but once they were across the border returning home, Theralin would relieve her of any responsibilities toward him.

  The ride from the camp to the road leading to the capitol road was short. They had been moving for only a short time when a rider from the rear guard galloped up. “We have an escort, Captain. At least twenty archers trail behind. They are keeping their distance, giving no indication of trying to overtake us.”

  “I would guess we have ten or more flanking us on each side then,” Theralin said. “Return to your position and keep a close watch on them.”

  “Yes, Captain,” he responded, wheeling his horse around.

  “Should we expect the ranger to come and threaten us again?” Jarol asked.

  “No, I think he will wait and make his case in court to the king and queen before we are even able to speak with them.”

  “So he will accuse us of murdering the boy’s father and brothers who were on elven land. A crime that will carry some weight, no doubt.”

  “Yes. We may never get to make a case for our innocence, let alone speak to them of the queen’s request, or leave these lands alive.”

  “Do you t
hink we could fight our way out of the capitol and make it to the border?”

  “Doubtful.”

  “Well, at least the next few days should be interesting.”

  “They shall indeed.”

  *****

  Alexis arrived at the palace and was recognized by palace guard, who then sent a runner ahead of her to notify the Lord Chamberlain of her return. Failure to notify him of the arrival of a royal heir would cost the guard and his superiors dearly. The elderly elf met her just inside the doors and greeted her with a big smile.

  “Welcome home, Princess Alexis. I have sent someone to freshen your room and draw you a bath. Are you hungry? Would you like some food brought to your room? Dinner will not be for some time.”

  “Thank you, Uncle Nafillion.”

  “The palace hasn’t been the same without you, child. Let me walk you part of the way.”

  Alexis loved her uncle. She could never say it out loud, but he was more a father and mother to her than her own parents. Her aunt having died many summers ago, he never took another lover. At least not publicly. He didn’t say anything right away and Alexis knew what that meant: anything he did say would be something she needed to pay close attention to. “Something on your mind, Uncle?”

  He chuckled. “We’ve had a few walks like this, haven’t we. Where I tell you things that others didn’t see fit to tell you.”

  “Yes, Uncle, and I am grateful always to you for them.”

  “Keep an eye on your betrothed. For someone from a lesser house, he has done a remarkable job of worming his way into many circles at court. I am not sure he was welcomed, but he attained status with them through one means or another. You understand, don’t you, dear?”

  “I understand. Uncle, I will need you to obtain a few things for me. Things that a princess can conceal within her royal garments.”

  “You do understand, then. How many?”