The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Your men will wait for you in the dungeon. If you return empty-handed, I will execute them all and you will find yourself scrubbing the barracks floors and used by the soldiers as a barracks whore.”

  Alexis walked back and grabbed Theralin’s hand, pulling her through the crowd. The captain was lethargic. Alexis had to drag her along as the queen shouted for everyone to leave the great hall.

  “Theralin, we have to hurry. Do you understand? We have to get our things and ride.” Theralin stared at the floor as if Alexis were scolding her. “Theralin,” she said one more time, then slapped her. It was just hard enough to get her attention. She started to swing again, but Theralin caught her wrist before it could connect. “Are you with me now?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet you in the stables.”

  With that, they split up, both hurrying to their destination. Morgan and Railia were in danger. Once she freed Morgan from his captors, she would beat him good for making her worry so much... or maybe she’d just hold him.

  They rode out a short time later, heading south at a gallop. They would ride into the night and, she hoped, catch up to them tomorrow.

  *****

  Morgan kept to the shadows, working his way through the city. He held the end of the chains in his fists, the rest wrapped around his body and arms. His new sense of hearing picked out the distressed tone of a woman and the threatening tone of a man from the voices in the city. They came from further up the dark alley, around a corner and out of sight. A grunt and sharp intake of breath from one and heavy breathing from the other told him there was a scuffle. He reached the corner at the side alley, ran between the buildings and peered around the corner. A man had a woman pressed against the building beside a stake of wooden crates. The crates blocked the view from the street but not from the back alley. He held his forearm across her throat, his body pressed against hers. She tried with both hands to pull his arm away.

  Morgan didn’t know exactly what was happening, but he knew he didn’t like it. Sensing Morgan’s anger, the dragon flared to life on the chains. A phantasm crawling over his body, the magic writhed like maggots crawling on a carcass—excited and hungry. Morgan felt the dragon’s excitement and pulled on the power with a thought. The dragon had told him for the magic to work, just think about what he wanted to happen; right now he wanted the power to protect the woman and himself. Neither man or woman saw his approach until he was standing behind the man. The woman looked over her assailant’s shoulder, then she managed to scream. The man said, “None of that now. Later, you can scream all you want.” Morgan grabbed the collar of the man’s leather shirt and pulled. The shirt pulled up and choked off anything else he was about to say as Morgan dragged him away.

  The man—caught off guard—recovered quickly, drawing a dagger from his belt. He twisted and turned, trying to break free, but Morgan moved with him, which only served the choke the man further. Morgan was no trained fighter. Roughhousing with his brothers and the few quarrels he had with people he’d recently met didn’t qualify. Not even the power he felt flowing through and around him would change that. What he did know was he had been stabbed earlier—twice—and he didn’t like that one bit. He pulled hard on the shirt collar with one hand and punched the back of the man’s head with the other. Bone cracked, and the man dropped. Morgan let loose and the body sprawled on the ground twitching.

  I need a weapon a sword or a war axe and you need a new home. I can’t keep walking around with chains wrapped around me.

  A sword, fashioned from these chains. It will be like no other before it.

  A sword it is then. Morgan looked at the body on the ground and then his hands. For a moment there was blood on his hand, but it disappeared into the blackness. He turned to the woman, who just stared at him, her lips trembling. “I need clothing. Can you help me with that?” he asked, his tone low and even. The woman nodded, but her eyes never stopped searching for a chance to escape. “Can you also take me to the blacksmith by the safest route available?” Again, she could and would. Morgan looked down at the man now motionless on the ground. His head was cocked at an odd angle and his eyes stared blankly into nothing. Furrows of blood lined the side of his head and his ear was resting in a fist-sized indentation.

  “Promise you won’t scream anymore,” he said, gently taking her hand. “Then lead the way.” A thought occurred to him and he released her to search the body. The man’s coin purse was tied to his belt. He had no need of it anymore.

  “Can you speak now? I’m not going to hurt you.” She didn’t answer right away. He guessed she was struggling with what he said and what she had just witnessed.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment, trying to pull away, obviously still frightened. “Why?”

  Morgan didn’t understand her question, so he asked his own. “Why was he hurting you?”

  He recognized the look on her face. Theralin gave him the same look when she was trying to decide if he was naïve or just daft. “You don’t know what I am?”

  “You’re a woman and he was trying to kill you?”

  “I’m a whore and he was trying to kill me. I wanted payment before and he disagreed.”

  “Before what?”

  She grew irritated, clearly thinking he was toying with her. “You are old enough to know about the relations between male and female.”

  “I do. It’s just that I have never seen a whore before. We didn’t have any in Talons Station that I knew of.”

  “Oh, I’m sure if it was a town of any size you had some. You may not have seen them on the streets, but they were somewhere.”

  He shrugged. “We should go before someone comes along looking for you.”

  “Are you going to kill me?”

  “No. I need clothes and to find the blacksmith. Help me and I’ll share this purse with you.”

  She paused, then nodded and pulled him along with urgency, no doubt wanting to be done with him. The trek took some time, but Morgan sensed she was being cautious. They came to a large stable with a barn and small cottage attached. He stood against the wall as she knocked. A moment later, he heard the click of the door latch and it squeaked as it was pulled open only a fraction.

  “What are you doing here?” the voice asked, confused and distrusting.

  “I need your help. Can I come in?”

  “Yes, just keep your voice down,” he said after a long pause.

  When the door opened, Morgan stepped behind his accomplice and pushed her and the man who answered the door farther into the house. The man was short but broad of shoulder. Morgan put a finger to his lips and pointed to the chair in front of the hearth where the man was likely sitting when they arrived. The man didn’t move. Morgan paused to decide how he wanted to proceed.

  If your belief and will remains strong, you need only think of what you wish to accomplish.

  I thought you were sleeping on the job.

  I helped you at the fortress and felt your disapproval at the loss of control of your body. You may continue as you are. We will speak again of this later, for there is so much more you can accomplish.

  Good, help me with this. He reached toward the blacksmith with his hand open, then slowly closed his fingers into a fist. He could feel the man’s body in his empty hand. An image of a giant hand holding the blacksmith settled at the forefront of his thoughts. He knew then he could crush the man with just a thought. Instead, Morgan moved his arm slowly and the man’s feet slid across the floor until he was pushed into the chair. It became even clearer to the blacksmith, who was nearly pissing his pants, that this innocent looking farm boy wrapped in chains was not to be trifled with. The boy turned to the woman.

  “This is what I need, then you can go: a cloak, pants, small clothes, shirt, stockings and boots. I also need a pack, two blankets and two water skins,” Morgan said, handing the woman the purse.

  Morgan followed her to the door. Before she could open it, he put his arm up and held it shut. “I am trusting you. Go rest and bring m
e the items tomorrow.” He leaned in and whispered, “There is no place you can hide that I can’t find you.” He grabbed her hair and smelled it to accentuate his point. Morgan saw her lips tremble then stepped back to let her out. He shook his head at what he had just done. The dragon was having an effect on him and he had to maintain control.

  Latching the door behind her, he began speaking to the blacksmith. “I have no intention of hurting you or anyone else under your roof. I need the use of your forge and some tools. I will need your help on occasion—I would rather not have to argue and force you each time.”

  The blacksmith nodded his understanding and Morgan released him to speak. “What are you planning to use my forge for? Some unholy rite?”

  “No, but thanks for the idea,” he responded, not knowing if he had any ability to summon anything. It wouldn’t hurt for the blacksmith to think any number of evils had descended upon him and his forge, though. “First you will remove these collars: this one from my neck, then both from the chains. We are going to make a sword unlike anything that has been seen in a thousand lifetimes.”

  “How would you know how to forge a sword? Have you apprenticed to a blacksmith? If you have, then you know it is not as easy as one thinks, no matter how powerful you are.”

  Morgan stepped closer and leaned down, resting on the arms of the chair. The blacksmith sat unmoving. Their eyes locked. “Blacksmith, who created the first swords and axes from ore in the mountains?”

  “The dwarves. And they are still master craftsmen of weapons today.”

  “Who do you think taught the dwarves how to make their beautiful weapons and armor?”

  “I don’t know. No one knows.”

  “I know, Blacksmith, who taught them.” Morgan hadn’t known any of it until just then when the dragon began speaking through him. He blinked his eyes and the knowledge was there; he felt different. His eyes had changed—although he didn’t know it. “I taught them. Do not question me again. Do you understand?” The blacksmith, tongue-tied, nodded, entrapped in his reptilian stare.

  Could you ask before taking control of me? Morgan sighed and exhaled. There was no use getting angry. What was he going to do about it? So dragons taught the dwarves how to forge weapons, huh?

  Dragons did not. I did.

  Morgan began to think maybe he had made a mistake with this partnership. How about I find you a new body to live in. There aren’t many dragons left so a snowcat, maybe, then you and I go our separate ways.

  It is too late for that. We are bound together until the end of time. The dragon laughed.

  Troll shit. What have I got myself into?

  The blacksmith nodded his understanding vigorously, drawing Morgan’s attention back to him. A door clicked down the hallway and small feet pattered on the stone. Morgan sighed at the interruption and sat back on the stoop of the hearth. A headful of curly blonde hair peeked up over the armrest at the blacksmith.

  “I’m thirsty, Da,” she said. The blacksmith looked at Morgan, who smiled and motioned for him to see to his daughter. Little fists rubbed little eyes and a yawn displayed tiny white teeth. He lifted his daughter to his chest and walked away. Across the room, Morgan heard a ladle dip into a water bucket and then pour into a cup. Morgan felt a pang in his heart for his mother and sister.

  “How’s this? Don’t drink too much or you’ll be back for me to take you outside and it’s cold out there.”

  “Da, I went earlier. Ma took me,” her tiny voice said.

  “I’m just warnin’ you, child. Now off to bed and let your dear ole da enjoy his hearth.” A fearful glance in Morgan’s direction, then the blacksmith took his daughter back to bed. Morgan heard a mellow snoring sound when he opened the door and the rustle of blankets. “Don’t wake your ma and stay in bed. Da will see you in the morning.”

  The door closed, and Morgan waited for the man to return to his chair. He leaned back against the stone with his eyes closed. The footfalls stopped, but the man didn’t sit down.

  “We should get started,” the blacksmith said.

  “Tonight you’ll remove my collar, but then sleep. There was a little misunderstanding at the fortress tonight, so I expect soldiers will be searching for me, so I’ll need a place to stay out of sight.”

  “I have a storeroom in the shop and there is a loft in the stable.” The blacksmith looked concerned. “What kind of trouble have you brought to my home?”

  “If you hide me well, then I would say... none.”

  The blacksmith let it drop. “You need to know I am no master bladesmith. I cannot afford the materials to make the weapons sought after by the clan chieftains and their seconds. So I don’t have a reputation as such, which means I don’t make very many weapons.”

  “Can you forge a straight serviceable sword?”

  “I can, and I can put a keen edge on it too.”

  “That is all I ask. As for materials, you will be using these chains and collars in the forging. You’ll use the leather to wrap the hilt and what’s leftover will line the inside of the scabbard on the flats and opening.”

  “What do I do about my patrons who are waiting on work to be completed?”

  “Conduct your day as any other. After a few days, the guard will most likely think I’ve left the area. I will hide in the stable and keep the chains with me. Try to complete the most pressing work and get it delivered. Then tomorrow evening we will begin.”

  “As you wish. Let’s free ya from those collars and get you settled.”

  Twenty-Five

  Jarol led ten thousand soldiers from Kor’Tarnaeil, marching southeast toward Rohans Town, home of Queen Verlainia’s Southern Clan. The ride was like a slow poison, which gave him plenty of time to review his battle plan. He had lost count of how many times he thought his plans over and yet he couldn’t quit thinking about it. They had stopped for the night and made camp. Two more days of marching—and thinking—remained before they would join up with the forces Raile had amassed. The army would then continue the march south and west from Rohans Town across the land into the frontier. Trobar’s orcs and Crag’s goblins waited under Trobar’s command in the cover of the dense Allorran Forest. Jarol had completed and relayed the plan, so why could he not stop thinking about it? His first command of something other than a patrol, and he wanted to crush his enemy in one decisive battle. His expensive education told him otherwise. When they reached Rohans Town, he would find a woman to take his mind off of what was coming.

  Spies, he thought. If there were spies from Torfellon in the north, then the Southland generals would know where his main force was gathering and could follow his progress. Jarol would combine both armies into one and would move it west, away from his forces in hiding, not wanting to give the enemy any reason to send scouts or spies toward the Alloran Forest. Short of throwing a celebration, Jarol would do whatever it took to keep their attention focused on his army. He had orcs, goblins, elves and dwarves among the ranks to add to its legitimacy. Jarol needed the enemy to think this group was the whole of his army. He sent the horse soldiers to the rear to keep the dust stirred. It might fool an enemy spotter from a far enough distance. If Jarol’s spies in the Southlands were accurate, King Michael’s forces were about an equal match in number to his own, but only in number.

  Although they seemed matched, his enemy didn’t have tall, muscular orcs, and Jarol’s Northmen were bigger and stronger than any two men from the Southlands. He tried not to underestimate his foe, but he knew the Southland army hadn’t fought against the ferocity that his army would bring to bear. Once all his pieces were in place, then he would bait them even more. The enemy would expect him to set his command tent in the rear, surrounded by his forces, but Jarol would place his encampment on the border of the western front. He would make himself known for a few days, moving about the camp, then slip out in the middle of the night.

  He had selected a soldier—one of his clan—who he trusted and who was about his height and build, with similar feat
ures. The soldier would wear a set of armor identical to Jarol’s and begin the masquerade. The tent flap would be kept open during the day and his pretender would move around inside, making his presence known. Some officers would come and go—more of his trusted people—and at other times they would stay a while. Under normal circumstances, there would be meetings, so they would have meetings. Important ones where they talked about women, land and riches. At least that was his best guess of the topics of their meetings.

  If his ruse worked, the spies would report the whereabouts of his command and the enemy would aim their army at it like an arrow. They would think him arrogant or stupid for placing his command on the front lines. He hoped it would be too tempting for them to pass up. In fact, he counted on it. His plan was predicated around the idea. If it all turned into a big pile of troll shit, then so be it. He still had the better army. Troll shit, Morgan was always saying that. That boy had never seen a troll and Alexis was the first elf he had ever talked to. At least the boy’s favorite swear words were about a race thought to have been hunted to extinction. Speaking of the boy, how the hell did he get free and where had they taken him? He would have to think about that later.

  His third force would hopefully march soon, led by whoever Verlainia selected—now that Ellitholm was dead—to lead the elven force south from Kor’Tarnaeil through the Black Mountains. Elven politics were involved in the selection, or Jarol would have selected the new commander himself. Although that would have likely meant he had to kill more of the uppity pain in the ass elven nobility before it was all over. The queen won’t have the same challenges. She will decide, and the elf chosen to lead would obey.

  Unlike his enemy, he now had a treaty with the Black Mountain Kingdom, and he knew they would watch everything unfold along their border. Jarol would use this for all it was worth. Part of his plan used the border of the Black Mountain Kingdom like a wall. The Southland army would not enter their lands for fear of creating another enemy. The Black Mountain elves would fiercely protect their border and, in doing so, would provide him with a fourth force to use against the Southland army. Many Southlanders would die thanks to his unwitting ally.