The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Dumb?” Morgan said, backpedaling until he bumped into Alexis. He turned and threw the water pitcher at the sword-wielder, who batted it away. Grabbing Alexis by the belt, he pulled her back and stepped in front of her, forcing her to turn and face the two knife-wielders. She blocked a jab from one then a slash from the other. Kicking out, she caught the first, planting a boot in his stomach.

  Morgan rushed forward, trying to close the gap so the assassin’s sword would be ineffective. If he got close enough, he could drop his makeshift shield and use both hands. Whatever happened, he would make her earn his death. But he was too slow and he knew it. Blood loss and physical exertion and being trussed up all day made him stiff. He got close, but she stepped back and swung. Morgan got his shield up and took the hit. It stopped him cold. Pain ran from his arm all the way into his teeth.

  Stunned momentarily, Morgan took a knee to the gut. The back of his throat burned as he almost threw up all that he had eaten. He had caught the punch the assassin threw with her sword hand on the serving tray, but it still knocked him to the floor. He turned to look for Alexis and saw she was still fighting. One attacker limped while the other had an arm hanging useless by his side.

  Morgan let go of the tray and lay on the floor waiting. “Princess, put your sword down. Let us fulfill our contract and I will let him live,” the leader offered.

  “Don’t listen to her. You can beat them.” Morgan moaned.

  “Put it down, Princess, and I’ll let you die in your lover’s arms.” Alexis held her sword out, keeping the other two at bay. She began moving toward Morgan, shaking her head. “Pity, but this must end. Time is never on our side and we have stayed longer than we should.”

  “Morgan, I’m sorry. Maybe we’ll meet again soon in another life,” Alexis said sadly. Morgan smiled at her and nodded, then stared death in face. She had sharpened her teeth to points. He caught a brief movement behind the assassin. Then her back arched and she was pushed away. Jarol threw knives at the remaining two as he charged them. He took the longer knife and finished them before they could get to the window. The orc and dwarf ran into the room next. Alexis pulled him out of harm’s way, then she knelt at his side, blocking his view. His captors then ran around the room, searching it. Someone yelled, “What happened in here?” Morgan squeezed Alexis’s arm and gave her a stern look.

  “Assassins. I think they were after Jarol,” Morgan said weakly to whoever was listening. “The Princess heard them ruffing me up and tried to help.”

  “Is that true?” Nafillion asked. He stood over Morgan, looking down at the two of them.

  “Yes, Uncle. I was out for a walk and heard a commotion,” Alexis lied. “The serving girl was dead, and they were trying to extract information from this boy.” Morgan winced at her calling him a boy.

  “Get up so I can get a look at your wounds,” Theralin said as she came to stand over him. It was getting crowded.

  “Let the lad catch his breath,” Stonehead scolded. Theralin gave him a dirty look.

  “Guards, get these bodies out of here. Search them, then burn them,” the chamberlain ordered.

  “Are you hurt? Did you get cut?” Morgan whispered to Alexis.

  “No, but it wouldn’t have been long. I don’t think I could have taken the three of them.”

  “Alexis, you should go inform your parents you are unharmed and give them the details of the attack.”

  “Uncle, I’d rather stay—”

  “Do as I say. This is no negotiation. We will talk later.”

  The giant orc next standing over Morgan looked down. He bent forward and held out a hand for him. Grasping it, he was pulled off the floor so fast it felt like his arm would be ripped off.

  “Make sure your slave doesn’t go anywhere. I will want to talk to him again,” the chamberlain said, giving Morgan a long look.

  “I’m no slave or boy,” Morgan said.

  “Yes, Lord Chamberlain. He will available to you any time,” Jarol replied. Jarol sat on his bed and Stonehead stood at the foot of the bed. Railia and Berhart stepped in the room after Chamberlain Nafillion walked out with his guards.

  “Looks like everyone but the boy is fine. What happened?” Berhart asked.

  “The servant isn’t fine. She had her throat cut,” Morgan spat, letting his anger at his captors show.

  “Not quite sure,” Jarol answered, ignoring him. “We know there were three assassins and heard a story saying they were after me. But other evidence says there is more to the story.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about and I’m gonna bleed to death soon if someone doesn’t get me some bandages.”

  “Take your shirt off,” Theralin ordered. She opened a wooden box with bandage materials and medicines in vials.

  “So, Morgan,” Jarol said grinning. “What can you tell us about this?” Trobar held a bow and quiver. “And this?” Stonehead was holding a laundry bag. “And this is the best one.” Jarol pulled a rolled-up garment from behind his back and let it unroll. It was Alexis’s dinner dress.

  Sixteen

  The Northeners’ negotiations were to start the following morning with the king, queen and their closest councilors. They met in same dining room they had eaten in the night before instead of at court. It would ensure prying eyes and ears wouldn’t be spreading gossip and there were monetary reasons worth keeping secret. The afore mentioned gold and silver payments mainly, the elves would receive for providing use of their land for troop movements.

  “Systhania, I am going to let you attend the meeting this morning,” Jarol said. “If you have something to offer during negotiations, you bring it to me first. If it has merit, I will consider putting it on the table, but it must benefit all of the north and not just your Lord Ellitholm.”

  The value of her suggestion had to benefit the north in general because her lord would not be around to realize any personal gain. Jarol was going to make sure of that. Theralin was to stay by Systhania’s side during the negotiations and keep an eye on her. He had left her alone after that first night on the road knowing there be anything of consequence to report until after they arrived at the elven kingdom. He had then promptly, without warning, silenced her.

  “General Jarol, I see you have allowed Lord Ellitholm’s servant to attend our meeting. After yesterday’s demonstration, I find this intriguing,” Queen Esmirelda commented.

  “I care nothing of what Lord Ellitholm’s servant has to say on his behalf and have acted to ensure her silence. We are not here for him, but for the people of the north and our queen.”

  “I see. Do try to not be so violent today.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. My apologies again for yesterday.”

  “Tell us what it is your queen desires,” King Illiand said. “We have some knowledge as you know of why you were sent here, but your comments yesterday lead us to believe there was information missing.”

  “You are correct. As you know, Queen Verlainia sent us to negotiate passage through your elven lands as needed in our campaign against the Southlands. My orders were to secure a treaty.”

  “That is somewhat similar to what we heard, but our information led us to believe you would accomplish this by making demands and threats.”

  “No, good King. While I may not be very diplomatic, I am not stupid. You were misinformed solely to discredit us.”

  “Well, then, enlighten us, young General,” Queen Esmirelda said.

  “Yes, Your Highness. We propose tithe, trade and reparations for the use of your lands to move our army. I can say it will not be our whole army, but a portion. I cannot say how often, only that there is a need. For this, we will a pay five percent tithe from each shipment we make to the north. We will purchase goods and supplies at market value from your merchants, and if there is any incident involving damage to land or life, we will make reparations to the family, the owner or the crown.”

  “Define this tithe for me, General,” King Illiand said.

  “A gift.
A good will offering.”

  “Couldn’t it be argued it’s a bribe?”

  “Someone could, I suppose. Is it not true that gifts are given when you are visited by other dignitaries? Why do they bring you gifts? Are they not a bribe for the giver’s own reasons? This is a gift from one ruler to another and not meant for the city’s coffers. Feeding an army will not be easy. Your merchants will see increased profits and can work knowing there will be steady trade. I think they would sing your praises.”

  “You were only selected by your queen just before your journey. How can you be so confident she will agree with the treaty we make?”

  “Well, if she sends you my head on a platter, you will know I was mistaken. But you are out nothing if that were to happen. If all goes well, your kingdom stands to gain with little or no investment.”

  “Give me a moment with my queen before we proceed.”

  “Excellent, Your Highness. We will move to the rear of the room.” Jarol bowed and waved for his people to follow him. The king motioned for Chamberlain Nafillion and his councilors to join him and the queen. They huddled together, keeping their voices low.

  “What do you think will happen next? Will they accept?” Theralin asked.

  “I think there will some negotiation. They think me young and hoping to gain the favor of our queen by returning with a treaty. In that, they believe I will grant them whatever they ask for. They are mistaken, of course, but let them try.”

  “You are young, that is true. But you will be fine. Remember the lessons your father had beat into that thick skull of yours,” Trobar said. Jarol was surprised he spoke.

  “What do all of you think?”

  “Aye, it will become trying at times and your patience will desert you. They may do that just to test you,” Stonehead said. “Keep your wits about you, it is a fact they be greedy and will try to gain more than offered.”

  “Don’t we all?” Jarol answered. “It looks as if they are finished. Let’s walk back.”

  “In the matter of gold and silver, we want fifteen percent,” Illiand said his face a stone mask.

  “Eight,” Jarol responded, equally stern.

  “Twelve.”

  “Ten and no more.”

  “Done. Now as far as market value for goods the crown does not set any restrictions on the merchants. Market value can... fluctuate.”

  “What I seek is fairness. Not being overcharged because of who we are. If your people pay half a gold for an item, then we shall too. If the merchant becomes too greedy, then we find another or do without.”

  “Troop movement. You realize we cannot let you bring an army through our lands,” Jarol knew the king baited him to see how he would react.

  “If that is the case, then all this talk was for naught.”

  “We feel five hundred at any one time to be fair.”

  Jarol looked at the old elf who he thought was the military advisor. None of the councilors had been introduced, so he couldn’t put a name with a face. “Your Highness, we are fielding an army. Maybe your councilor is so old and senile that he has forgotten what an army is. Or maybe your army is lazy. I’m unsure which. Ten thousand, or we waste each other’s time.”

  Theralin cleared her throat and Jarol turned to her. In front of him, the old elf was working himself into a fit. “Just how large will this army be?” Queen Esmirelda asked.

  Theralin grabbed Jarol’s arm and spoke. “Good queen, if you seek a number, none here could give an accurate accounting. The muster started the day we departed. I will tell you, this is no organized series of raids or border skirmish to gain a few fields of land. Queen Verlainia has set her sights on the capitol of the Southlands and King Michael’s throne.”

  “Ten thousand,” Jarol reemphasized.

  “I demand satisfaction,” the old warrior yelled.

  “What for? Have you looked at your reflection? You are old. Theralin, take him somewhere and take care of him. He’s more your type.”

  “He means with swords you fool, and you have no idea what my type might be.”

  “I’m not dulling my sword on his leathery ass.”

  “Councilor Numoi has asked for satisfaction, General,” King Illiand said. “To deny him would label you a coward without honor.”

  “It’s lucky for me I don’t care. But, in the name of diplomacy, how bad do you want satisfaction, Councilor Numoi? Ten thousand if I win, two thousand if I lose. Anything less and we thank you for your time.”

  “You would wager on a duel of honor?” Esmirelda asked.

  “I’m sure I’m not the only one. But my wager is not for coin or to sooth bruised honor. It is so these proceedings can continue. Is my wager acceptable?”

  “Let’s begin this so we can move on,” King Illiand said.

  “I will exercise my right to substitution,” Numoi announced.

  “No surprise there. As the challenged, I pick the weapons. Please send for your champion so we can continue.”

  The councilor spoke to a guard, who hurried out of the room and returned with five elves in tow. They approached the king and bowed, then offered the councilor a respectful nod. They spoke softly for a moment, then the lead elf turned and looked at Jarol. He sneered then turned away, nodding again to the councilor.

  Jarol watched his opponent as he walked toward him. He walked with confidence—a little too much—but that was fine. He wore a sword and a knife. The knife was ornamental and, like many other soldiers, it wasn’t a primary weapon or one that was practiced with often. The Black Mountain elves had not fought a war or major skirmish in a thousand summers at least. Sparring was fine; it was organized with rules and no one got killed unless it was declared a duel to the death. He doubted these elves had ever participated in many—or any—of those. Then again, who knows? Maybe this one had pissed off a few husbands.

  King Illiand looked around the room, then spoke. “The rules are three touches which must draw blood. The challenged will now choose the weapons.” Jarol removed his sword and shirt. “Knives.” His challenger did his best to hide his disappointment. He probably thought he would be able to put on a show for the king.

  Jarol stretched and rolled his head then drew his knife. The elf removed his cape and sword but not his shirt. He handed the items to one of his companions. “Are there any other rules, Your Highness?” Jarol asked.

  The king and councilor looked at each other, then the king said. “No.”

  His opponent drew his knife and set his body in a fighting stance. “That’s a pretty knife you have. My baby sister has one just like it.” Jarol laughed and acted relaxed as if nothing mattered except his joke. “She is, of course, more skilled than you, so she deserves it.” He knew this elf was drunk on honor, making impressions and wanting everyone to always be looking at him. He was a pretty boy—almost feminine—and he was fast.

  Jarol laughed as his opponent rushed him, face red with anger. The first mistake the elf made was jumping to cover the remainder of the distance. Jarol was taught that unless you are a bird, you don’t want to be caught in the air. Jarol sidestepped and let the elf pass him, but not without a punch to the kidneys to help him along. He could have cut him instead, but wasn’t in a hurry to start the end of the match.

  Jarol’s back was to the king and his councilors. “I hope that isn’t all you got. They’re watching you, you know.” Why anyone would let taunts bother them was beyond Jarol, but he was going to push him until he broke. The elf came at him, thrusting his knife like it was a sword. Jarol kept backing away, staying out of his reach. The elf switched to slashing, but his blade only found air.

  “Now I’m sure my baby sister is much better with a knife. She at least gave me a scar,” Jarol taunted, pointing to a scar on his side just above the waist. It made him wish he did have a sister or brother. Maybe that was why he had a fondness for the boy Morgan who had lost his brothers and father. Jarol’s father was ill. Very soon he would be without family, his mother already having passed.
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  Time was wasting. He needed to finish all this diplomatic nonsense and return home to be involved in raising his army. He stepped forward to engage the elf, who was still trying to use his knife like a sword. Jarol tossed his knife to his left hand. When the elf stepped forward to thrust at his chest, he batted it down with his blade. It was the first sound of steel on steel and the last. Using his right elbow, he caught the elf in the face, who then staggered backward, spitting blood. Jarol sliced upward with the knife across the elf’s right thigh and then across the forearm, scoring two hits in one stroke. He took a breath, making a decision on how to finish.

  His opponent wasn’t incapacitated and still had use of his arm, so there wasn’t any reason to go easy on him. What followed was brutal as Jarol attacked using his hands and knees but never making that final touch with his knife. He concentrated his attack at the his opponent’s head, who never saw the leg sweep coming. The force behind the sweep lifted the elf’s feet high enough that his head hit the stone first, dropping him flat on his back. The slap of his hand hitting the floor silenced the room. Jarol knelt and ripped the elf’s shirt open. He held his knife as if to plunge it into the elf’s chest. Staring at the councilor he drew his razor-sharp point from collar bone to navel. The onlookers gasped.

  “That makes three. Can we proceed now?” Jarol asked. One of the unconscious elf’s followers charged, drawing his sword. Jarol saw the king about to speak, but the queen laid her hand on his arm, silencing him. That was odd, but there was no time to think about it. He heard movement behind him as he readied to defend against the sword-wielder, who swung his sword with both hands. Then it was over. The sword connected with an axe head and the soldier dangled from Trobar’s hand. The elf squirmed and kicked until Trobar shook him senseless.

  Trobar pulled the elf close to his face. In a calm, deep voice that reminded Jarol of one of his instructors, he said, “You should not have interrupted.” Then he threw the elf back toward the king and queen. The royal guard formed a line between the royals and everyone else in room.