The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Theralin, you and I both know her head would adorn a pole on the castle wall if we had taken her back, and that is after she spent time in the torturer’s loving embrace,” Alexis said. “They embarrassed Queen Verlainia and harmed you and your guards’ credibility. Don’t look so shocked. There is no dishonor in dispatching assassins.”

  “I know you’re right. However, even though they are dead and Railia is safe, I fear it will be many seasons before my queen has forgiven me. I hope it is enough to see my guards free of the dungeon.”

  “This is but half your problem,” Alexis mused. “You, Captain, still have to find out what happened to Morgan. No offense to Railia, but what happened to Morgan and how it happened is more important to your queen than the stolen daughter of a clan chieftain.”

  Theralin nodded. “Let’s rest, eat and sleep. Then we pack and return home. Railia, the assassin’s horse is yours. Find something more suitable to wear.”

  Railia nodded and walked over to the man’s dead horse, then dug through the saddle bag. His clothes would come close to fitting her. She produced a flask, uncorked the top and smelled. “My friends, have you ever drank Dragon Piss?” she asked with a grin and mischief in her eyes.

  *****

  Fredrik looked at the young man standing next to his horse. The blood, dirt and especially the smell said something of his current state of affairs. He pulled his foot out of the stirrup and reached down. “Put your foot in and take my arm,” he instructed, then pulled Morgan up behind him. He turned Blackstar and moved through the scrub of brush and scattered trees toward the river.

  “Tell me of the blood on your clothes and the bag you carry,” Fredrik said.

  “That is not a short story, as I’ve worn these clothes for what seems like forever. Most recently, there is blood from a clan chieftain’s son and his friends, and a trio of assassins before that. Some of it is mine. Father used to tell my brothers and me that boys dream of adventure or being knights and all the fanfare that accompanies those dreams. Father was not one for dreams, but hard work and reality, and now I see why.”

  “Your father was right to instruct you in harsh realities instead of addlebrained dreams. What little you’ve shared would lend praise to his foresight. If your story of assassins and chieftain’s sons is true, the fact you are alive would be due partly to him.”

  “I miss him and my brothers. Goblins killed them, and I don’t where my mother and sister are. I hope they safe.”

  “Goblins?”

  “Yes. I will tell what I can,” Morgan answered. Fredrik rode along in silence, listening to the young man’s tale. His passenger couldn’t see him smile as he mentioned his son Jarol, and he was relieved as the story progressed that Jarol wasn’t the chieftain’s son he spoke of earlier. The assassin attack in the palace of the Black Mountain elves was interesting, as was the way his tone changed when he talked about the women in his life. A princess, a captain of the guard and Raile’s daughter, whose brother was now a mortal enemy for sure. The young man hesitated, and Fredrik knew he was deciding how much to tell him. Blackstar, being a spirited war horse, didn’t like the slow pace Fredrik commanded, but it wouldn’t do to get him to his destination before hearing everything.

  When they crossed the river, Fredrik had thought of pushing Morgan off into the water just to rinse off some of the stench, but he was loath to interrupt him at that point. Now, as they passed the slums and approached the town, the story came to end as the young man directed him toward the alleyways instead of the street. There were holes in his story, but, even so, the telling rang of truth with no embellishments. He knew from what he could piece together that the young man was a runaway slave. Normally on finding out that information, the slave would be returned to the master. But he was no bounty hunter looking for coin and there were too many respected friends named in the telling of his story for it to be a farce. He knew Theralin and would tell her about his encounter and let her do with the information as she pleased.

  Fredrik felt Morgan shift his weight behind him and heard his feet hit the ground. Blackstar stomped, a little skittish at Morgan’s sudden push off his rump, but he was quieted with a word. “I take it this is your stop?”

  “Yes. Thank you for your help, sir. I will go on foot from here.”

  “I leave in two days’ time when my business here is finished. Be outside the south gate if you desire a traveling companion.”

  “I will do my best to be there before dawn, waiting out of sight.”

  “Good. Until then,” Fredrik said, spurring Blackstar into motion.

  *****

  Morgan had waited till Fredrik had passed the blacksmith’s shop before getting off the beast of a horse to say farewell. He hurried back and crept into the back door of the stable. The ring of metal being worked by hammer echoed from the smithy. He cracked the door between the two and made sure the blacksmith was alone before stepping inside. The blacksmith had his back to him as he faced the forge, working metal on an anvil. Morgan cleared his throat between hammer strikes, startling the man.

  “So ya’ve come back. Thought ya might have been captured by the guard.”

  “They didn’t catch me, but not for lack of trying. We have to start work on my sword. I leave in two days.”

  “Aye da know if I’ve the time. Ya should find another smith. Ya clothes, food and coin are in the storage room,” the blacksmith said, dismissing him as if the matter was settled. He turned back to his work. Morgan grew angry. Was the man’s memory so short?

  Kill him.

  No, but I need to do something.

  Place your arm in the forge.

  What!

  Do it. You will not be harmed.

  Morgan walked in front of the forge. Immense heat pulsed toward him.

  As he leaned forward, the blackness engulfed his arm. The glowing coals seemed pretty decorations and nothing more. He felt no heat at all. The blacksmith roared and rushed to his side. Morgan reached down and scooped up a handful of coals. He held them up and let them fall back to join the others. The blacksmith stood slack-jawed as his mind tried to comprehend the sight. His mouth worked up and down in silence. Morgan pulled his arm from the forge, then turned and grabbed the blacksmith by his shirt.

  “We start now,” Morgan said. A plume of smoke rose from the shirt into the smith’s face. “Prepare all that’s needed while I wash and put on the clean clothes... and, smith, don’t test me again.”

  He is not needed. I could have shown you how. You should have killed him.

  If the war hasn’t started, it will within days and this land will see enough killing to last generations. You know my luck, dragon. Do you think I’ll come away unscathed?

  How long will you ignore this gift I’ve given you? You could rule the world.

  Maybe. Let us see what remains of it before we get too excited about ruling it. Furthermore, I will choose when and who to kill. I need a bath and some food. If you wish to speak of something other than killing, please continue... otherwise, be silent.

  Filling two buckets with water, Morgan took his clean clothing to the stable along with rags for washing and drying. He took his time, knowing the smith had to prepare. The stable door opened just enough to let a body slide between the doors. The woman who he had relied on slipped in and approached. He had just finished drying and was still naked.

  “I was here earlier, but you had gone out and the smith didn’t know when you would return. I hope the clothes fit well,” she said.

  “We’ll know soon.” He was embarrassed and yanked up his pants. Color flushed his face. “I haven’t checked the coin purse. How much is left?”

  “A gold and ten silvers.”

  “So much?”

  “He was a man of some means. Poor men don’t go out whoring on this side of the river.”

  “There is an old woman in the slum. I want you to take her some food. Take two silvers and buy her grains, flour, salt and dried meat. She needs skins of water, too. Ret
urn here and I will give you directions.”

  “The smith said you were leaving in two days.”

  “Or sooner,” he answered.

  “I want to go with you.”

  “Where I’m going there is nothing but death and destruction waiting.”

  “So, no different than here. I would rather be miserable and warm than miserable and cold.”

  “I’m meeting someone on the road outside the south gate at dawn in two days. Be there and make sure you have a horse.” The woman smiled. Morgan tried to remember when someone last smiled at him. She took the two silvers and hurried out of the stable. Shouldering the chains, Morgan picked up the coin purse and the bag of food and walked to the smithy. If she was traveling with him, he might want to find out her name.

  Twenty-Eight

  The army topped a rise in the road and were greeted by the sight of a tent city. Beyond that were the wooden, blockage-style walls of Rohans Town. The gates opened and four riders rode out to greet them. As they drew closer, Jarol noticed that none of the four was Raile. It was a blatant insult. Jarol outranked all the clan leaders during the time of war. It had to be that way to solidify their forces; otherwise they would all seek to act as they saw fit—or not act at all, if they could get away with it. Jarol would smile and act as if nothing was amiss. Raile couldn’t challenge Jarol for his position any longer, but he could be uncooperative to a degree—possibly enough that Jarol would fail. Jarol had the favor of the queen and loyalty of the other chieftains. He would rather not remove Raile’s head from his shoulders, but...

  A soldier behind Jarol spoke up. “My Lord General, should we not ride out to meet them?” Jarol recognized the man’s voice. He was one of Verlainia’s long-time officers. Jarol had served under him occasionally when he rode with the patrols in the far north policing the wildmen. For a moment, he reflected on the fact that none of the existing officers had raised any objection to his being appointed general over them. The older officers knew and respected his father, and some knew him well. It could also be they were more than a little wary of the queen and her moods.

  “Tell me, do you see Raile among them? No? Then they will come to us,” Jarol stated. He turned to a middle-aged man from his clan. “Captain Stahl, have a squad of your best form up behind us and be alert. Changes within the Southern Clan may be in order before we leave Rohans Town.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lieutenant Massey!” Jarol called to another member of his clan. She was a cousin, daughter of his aunt.

  “My Lord General,” Massey replied, eager for an assignment. Unlike Jarol’s dark hair and eyes, her hair was blonde and eyes green.

  “Once the messengers arrive, take a squad and secure the gates to the city on my order. If they offer any resistance, you and your men may defend yourselves—but try not to kill all the city guard.”

  “Yes, sir.” Massey chuckled and rode away.

  “What are we doing, My Lord? These are our allies. The queen would not approve—” A wave of Jarol’s hand silenced the junior captain.

  “Captain Tema, I thank you for your concern. Raile of late has not shown the queen proper respect. No public insults, mind you—he isn’t that stupid—but through his actions. He offers me even less respect and, by extension, the queen’s army—my army. I need to make sure his lack of respect doesn’t cost us additional lives. Rohans Town will not suffer at my hand, nor will its people. Its leaders, though, will not get the same courtesy.”

  “Apologies, sir,” Tema said. He was the younger of two elves in Jarol’s top command.

  “It’s fine, Captain. Don’t concern yourself over the queen’s feelings or if I will start a civil war with the Southern Clan. The war with the Southlands will sort out some of our internal problems and afterward I will sort out the rest.”

  Jarol evaluated the party Raile sent to greet them. The leader was nervous, but did his best to hide it. The man on the horse next to him was younger and couldn’t control his face. Words hadn’t even been exchanged and he alternated between a smirk and a sneer.

  “You are Jarol?” the leader asked, leaving off any mention of title or rank. No insignia identified the rank of the riders. Were they ignorant of army insignia? Were they stupid, or was this another insult?

  “No. The general is behind me. My Lord General, would you greet—” Jarol looked to the man.

  “Edie.”

  “My Lord General, would you greet...Edie,” Jarol said, looking at the young captain behind him and smiling. He hoped he would understand and play along.

  “Does Edie have a rank?” the captain answered, understanding. “Lieutenant? Captain? Shit Mucker, maybe?”

  The leader didn’t respond to the insult, but the sneering man became visibly angry. His face turned red and he reached for his sword. A command from Jarol, and his war horse shot forward, knocking the angry man and his horse to the ground. A properly trained war horse could be as dangerous as its master. Jarol pulled the reins, holding back his war horse and letting the other horse up off the ground. The man was not so lucky. Jarol let his horse continue to follow his command. The horse reared up and the man screamed until an iron-clad hoof smashed the man’s head with the sickening crunch of breaking bone.

  A second attack by the horse broke ribs, pushing air and blood out of the mangled head. A command and pull of the reins brought the beast under control. The other three riders as well as Jarol’s captain had all pulled their spooked mounts out of the way. Jarol hadn’t been able to see the dead man’s face before his horse destroyed it, but he was sure it wasn’t sneering any longer. The horse continued to stomp until Jarol reined him in again and moved him back around to face the messengers.

  “What did you do to piss Raile off that he sent you, these others and that idiot out here? Did he not even describe my appearance to you?” Jarol asked.

  The three riders looked at each other.

  “Captain, leave that... right where it is.” Jarol ordered, pointing to the body. “I’m waiting for an answer. Or are you still trying to figure things out?”

  “He only said you were young and would be at the head of the army, My Lord.”

  “So now it’s My Lord, is it? I lead the entire army. That includes the Southern Clan’s soldiers and—what are you?”

  “A merchant, My Lord General.”

  “A what! Are any of you in the army?”

  “He was,” the merchant said, looking down at the dead man.

  “Did Raile at least give you a message to pass on?” Jarol asked, exasperated.

  “He instructs you to set your camp on the east side of the road and then to call on him at dinner.”

  “Return to town and inform him you delivered the message.”

  “What should I say about him?”

  “Tell him...tell him I didn’t like his face.”

  The merchant was halfway to the gates when Jarol started his army forward. This was much more than a single insult now. “Captain, send riders and find the command tent and bring me whoever is in charge there. If he or she refuses to come, drag them with your horse.”

  Jarol looked at the remaining soldier. He was an elder elf and seasoned general with an eye patch and stiff posture. “You’ve been quiet, Arlen. Whatever gifts I have, reading minds isn’t one. Speak—speak your mind.”

  “What are you going to do, Jarol?” Arlen asked, as one of only a few who could call him Jarol with permission.

  “What do you think I should do?”

  “Kill him. Raile should be removed and replaced.”

  “It seems you are the mind reader, Arlen, for that is exactly what I’m going to do. Send a rider to the dwarf company and get Stonehead up here. Have a horse brought to him. I don’t want to wait while he tries to drive a wagon through half the army.”

  “I will fetch him myself and fill him in on what has transpired.”

  “Good. Then you will take charge of the army and make camp while I’m away enforcing discipline and teac
hing respect. Order Raile’s army to break camp and prepare to march west when you meet with their field commander. As soon as they are ready, get them moving. They will go on ahead of us.”

  “You want them to precede us?”

  “I sure as hell don’t want them behind us.”

  “I see your point. We let them soften up the enemy for us. Consider it done and I’ll keep whoever the field commander is with me so the two of you can meet. I imagine when you return the Southern Clan’s chain of command will be reorganized and much more pliable.”

  “Pliable... Yes. Like potter’s clay, we will turn them into something useful.”

  *****

  “Aye, Jarol,” Stonehead yelled unhappily from atop his horse. “Why in the twelve hells do I gotta be ridin this animal when I done had a perfectly good oaken bench under my arse?”

  “Your people have twelve hells?”

  “Eh, no. It sounds good when I be cursin.”

  “There are problems needing to be addressed with Raile and I want you to bear witness.”

  “Aye, lad. I heard about his insulting ways.”

  “And... If I’m outnumbered, say, forty to one, you think you can lend a hand?”

  “Forty is it then. That’s when ya be wantin my help.”

  “Yer old, Stonehead. I don’t want you tiring yourself out on my account. Forty seemed like a fair number.” Jarol smirked.

  “Yer father don’t know what a braggart he sired.”

  “Had they even thought to insult my father like this, he would have taken a thousand men into Rohans Town and killed them all,” Jarol said solemnly. “I don’t want to get to that point, my friend. It’s a little jest before the blood is spilt is all.”

  “Aye, I know lad. I’ll be keepin them off your back while you... reorganize. That’s what Arlen be callin it.”