The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Lieutenant!” Jarol called, getting the young woman’s attention.

  “General, the gates are secure. The guard is being most cooperative.”

  Jarol saw the city guard milling around talking with his soldiers. “Very good. We will leave our mounts in your care. Can someone tell me where I might find your chieftain?” he said to the guards.

  “Follow the road, sir. Once you’re past the shops and market, it’s at the end. You can’t miss it,” a city guardsman answered. Jarol nodded his thanks.

  “Been fretting and planning since we rode outta Kor’Tarnaeil. Do ya have a plan ya wanna share with yer old tottering companion?” Stonehead asked.

  “It is certain Raile has poisoned his underlings toward us if the attitude of the man I left in the road is any evidence. Some of his more experienced people may be smart enough to keep their mouths shut. We will call this plan a mortal lesson in respect. Any disrespect to either of us and we end their mortal life.”

  “Aye, so we kill ’em. Good.”

  The people of Rohans Town watched the pair as they walked down the middle of the street. Jarol wore a plain black breastplate over a black leather jerkin and pants. Two clasps, shaped as gold dragons, held his black hooded cape on his shoulders. They were the insignia of his rank: General of Generals. Black bracers and greaves engraved with dragons inlayed in gold—a gift from his father—adorned his forearms and legs. His war helmet hung on the saddle of his horse back at the gate. It was as safe there as if he wore on his own head. Pity the poor soul who tried to steal from his trusted war horse. Stonehead wore his leathers, having left his armor in his wagon. The only warrior he felt could defeat him walk alongside him. He strolled along, resting his war axe on his shoulder.

  Two spearmen guarded the doors to Raile’s home and headquarters. They crossed their spears when they saw Jarol and Stonehead approach. “Chieftain Raile is not seeing any visitors today. You must come back tomorrow,” the elder of the two guards announced.

  Jarol knew they were just performing their duty and following orders.

  “Aye, lads, do you know who ya be speakin to? This is Queen Verlainia’s chosen general of her army, an army that waits just outside yonder gates. If you value your next breath, ya should move those pig stickers an be lettin us in.”

  “Apologies, General, sir. Let me announce you.”

  “No. Continue guarding the door and do not leave your post no matter what. Follow that order and live to see the sunrise tomorrow.”

  “I be thinkin the general shall announce hisself. Be good, lads, and obey what he be telling ya,” Stonehead advised. The elder spearman hurried and opened the door, then stepped out of the way. Stonehead went first, ahead of Jarol. Servants stared as they hurried about their duties.

  Jarol paused in the center of the large entryway. Bawdy laughter echoed straight ahead. They smiled and nodded to the servants they passed, wanting them all to be at ease. Arriving at the source of merriment, they encountered a heavy wooden door. They both recognized two of the voices from within. Jarol pulled the latch down and pushed the door hard. It swung back and crashed into the wall. They stepped into the room. Jarol looked at six faces, still only recognizing two.

  “Well, well. It’s the queen’s favorite son,” Raile sneered and three of the six men laughed. One was Tarin, Raile’s idiot son. They sat at a large rectangular table, two on one side, three on the other and Raile at the head. They appeared to be well into their cups. Each man had his own bottle on the table.

  “I am that and more. As Stonehead and I weren’t invited to your party,” Jarol looked around the room again. “I thought I would come check out my new headquarters in person.”

  “Your new headquarters?” Raile asked, confusion turning to anger.

  “Stonehead, explain to Raile our mission here today,” Jarol said as he shut the door quietly then turned to face them all again, smiling.

  “Reorganization. Do ya lads be knowin what tha means?” Stonehead let the head of his axe rest on the floor while he leaned on the handle. His relaxed stance and tone of voice were purposely meant to keep the men at ease. Jarol was still thinking about the impression he wanted to make, not so much on the people in the room but on the people who would hear about what happened in the room.

  He strolled around the table. The laughing men all sat together on the same side. Jarol clasped his hands behind his back and paced back and forth a few times. He looked down at the floor as if in thought, but he had already decided. If he did nothing, this group would be a thorn in his side and that was something he couldn’t take. He glanced up. Raile watched him with squinted eyes from where he sat at the head of table. Jarol turned at the foot to walk around to the other side, now behind Tarin and his laughing boys. Verlainia would approve of him removing any obstacle that would impede his success.

  Not one man spoke up to answer Stonehead. Jarol’s pacing and Stonehead’s easy manor coupled with the fact they were sitting within their seat of power bolstered their confidence. Or maybe it was the wine and ale. When Jarol moved, it was like a spider pouncing a fly in its web. The blade sliced cleanly through the large artery of the first laughing man’s neck. Jarol spun like a dancer and the blade bit into the next man’s neck in the same manner. Two men were all he could catch unawares. He stabbed Tarin in the back just under the shoulder blade as he jumped up from his chair. Tarin screamed in a high-pitched squeal. Raile stood, drawing his blade as Jarol spun gracefully on his heel around Tarin’s arched form and brought his sword down with more power than finesse, taking Raile’s arm off at the elbow. Forearm and sword landed on the table. Spinning around Raile, who was falling forward onto the table, Jarol’s blade came to rest on the shoulder of the first man who hadn’t laughed.

  “I be thinking, lads, tha is the meanin of reorganization,” Stonehead quipped.

  Tarin and Raile were both screaming. Raile squeezed his severed arm, trying to stop the flow of blood. “Stonehead, would you put a hot iron on the stump before he bleeds to death? I’m not finished with him yet,” Jarol said, walking back around the table. Tarin looked toward the door and tried run, but didn’t get far. Jarol tripped him up and brought the pommel of his sword down on Tarin’s head multiple times, shutting him up. Servants rushed in just as one body fell over onto the floor. The first to arrive was a young girl who immediately screamed, then threw up. The rest came in only to run back out. Jarol went out into the hallway and yelled for them to return.

  “Would ya two lads mind holding the clan chief down in his chair,” Stonehead ordered the two men Jarol hadn’t killed.

  Guards rushed toward Jarol, weapons drawn. Jarol pointed his sword at them and yelled, “Stand down!” All but one slowed to a stop. The runner held his sword high, poised for a mighty swing. Jarol held his ground, sword raised in front of him in a defensive stance. Then, as the guard chopped at his still form, he wasn’t there. His stance went from defense to offense as he sidestepped, switching the sword to his other hand. Jarol went low and hamstringed the man, then spun and lashed out again as he passed. The sound of armor crashing to the floor followed. A moment later, the guard tried to get up, then fell back down, clutching his neck. Something warm and wet ran through his fingers and onto the floor. Jarol walked away.

  “I am your general and you will obey me or suffer the same fate.” The guards looked from their comrade to him but took too much time to process and Jarol took one step toward them. The movement seemed to wake them from their stupor and they either sheathed or dropped their weapons. “One of you, bring me two full sets of shackles. Neck, hands and legs. The rest of you wait outside.”

  A scream startled everyone within earshot. “Hold ’em still, lads. We gotta burn ’em all or he’ll keep bleedin.” A second scream, then silence. “That be gettin it. Good job. Now I think ya both should find the general and explain how useful ya can be to him.”

  Jarol chuckled at Stonehead’s coaching. He leaned back against the wall and waited for the
two men to come out. They hurried out, then stopped when they saw Jarol and another dead body. “Are you soldiers or are you townsfolk like the messenger who was sent to greet me? Did the merchant return and tell Raile what happened on the road?”

  “No, General. He never returned.”

  “That’s just as well. You drank with Raile and Tarin, yet you don’t seem drunk or angry, not even over the events of the last few minutes.”

  “We recently became part of Lord Raile’s inner circle after the deaths of our officers. You see, we are a part of a small mercenary company he hired. I believe our captain tried to tell Lord Raile and his son the army needed to be more organized. They were invited for drinks to discuss the matters and never returned. We were promoted by Lord Raile right after. That was our first meeting with the man and his son.”

  “They are not lords, regardless of what they may have told you. The only lords are among the elves of Kor’Tarnaeil. Besides, they are nothing but prisoners now. Return to the army and make yourselves ready to march.”

  The two men hurried out and Jarol poked his head back into the room. Stonehead was tying a bandage around Tarin’s chest. A large mound of material was over the wound on his back. The boy was still unconscious in his chair.

  “Ya was supposed to kill ’em like those other two.”

  “I thought it might be a waste of a good lesson. They will ride at the front of their army in chains and will die on the battlefield.”

  “Tha be cold hearted.”

  “It sure as hell is,” Jarol answered. “But still better than they deserve.”

  “Aye, truth.”

  “When you’re done playing nurse maid, round up all the officers and bring them here. Those other two were from a mercenary company. Find out if there are any more who have been hired and have all the mercenary leaders join us. Oh, and have the supply officer replenish what we used on the march here.”

  “Anything else, Your Lordship?”

  “Yes. Clean the shit off my right boot.”

  “Wha, there be nothin on it?” Stonehead said, looking down.

  “There will be in a minute if you don’t get moving.”

  Twenty-Nine

  Michael silently cursed the northern queen and her army. For days he walked among his troops, taking care not to pay notice to anyone in particular for fear of seeing their dead eyes or maimed body later. His quiet life making mundane government decisions had turned into one of constant reports—all of them bad—and tasteless camp food—equally bad. He regretted his announcement he would eat and live just as his army would. While it wasn’t exactly true—his accommodations were much better and there was more variety to his meals—it was all thoroughly disheartening.

  He was not now and never had been a soldier. His days of swordplay as a young prince among his peers would do him little good in battle. He was a figurehead in the truest form and hopefully an inspiration to his men. Just his presence would inspire his men to fight harder, General Izing had informed him. In front of him was his partially eaten lunch and a map of Torinth that covered the rest of the table. He placed small figurines on the map to mark the movements of both armies. His spy in the far north made him aware when the northern army marched from Kor’Tarnaeil. Messages by bird took time and were not always reliable, but they were faster than riders. His officers calculated the enemy army should reach Rohans Town any time.

  A moment of regret washed over him as he looked across the table at the map. He should have treated with Queen Verlainia. Since the time of his grandfather, their two realms maintained an uneasy peace. There were raids by the Northerners since before his ancestors sat on the throne in Torfellon, but never had their armies faced each other on the battlefield. The land between the two great forests, Black and Alloran, from Rohans Town to Torfellon, was rolling hills and flat, grassy plains. It was also the heart of the kingdom’s stable economy. Grains, livestock, fruit, vegetables and wild game all made its way to Torfellon and nearby towns. Wagonloads of food, clothing, spices and more could have been taken north if Verlainia would have enacted laws to civilize her kingdom, but instead she left the clans mostly to govern themselves.

  Pushing the dispatches out of his way, Michael took a blank parchment and penned a letter to King Illiand in the Black Mountains. He wasted no time with praise or pleasantries, nor did he beg. He asked for aid in the upcoming conflict but left the details of how much to the elven monarch. If no aid was forthcoming, he added, would he reach out to Queen Verlainia and offer his city as neutral ground for the two parties to discuss peace? He signed it with his warmest regards and sealed the parchment with his seal. Calling for a rider to carry the parchment, he handed it off and sat back in his chair. It was only a matter of days till thousands would die and blood would soak the fields in red.

  *****

  Morgan held the white-hot chains with tongs as the blacksmith hammered them flat. Beforehand, they had twisted the two chains together and pinned the ends to keep them from untwining at the wrong moment. The dragon living within aided the process with magic, keeping the super-heated metal glowing until they made a complete pass. The second time the metal was heated, the blacksmith took the tongs and folded the piece, bringing both ends to the middle and hammering them together. Laying it out in front of the forge, he checked the thickness, then began again and again.

  Morgan watched the runes that had been engraved into the individual links disappear, then form again. He studied the blacksmith’s face just after the first time it happened. He was scared, but Morgan assured him there would be no magical repercussions. He didn’t know if the blacksmith believed him or not, but the desire to get the job done and get his unwelcome guest out of his business and home overrode the fear of the magic. The hammer rose and fell, guiding the red-hot throes of creation.

  The sword would be tapered: wide at the guard, narrower at the point. Iron rod was added and folded into the molten chain to provide additional material. The blacksmith explained the processes, but Morgan thought it was just to ease his own discomfort. Someone watching over his shoulder wasn’t normal. Sweat dripped off the blacksmith when he leaned over the blade to inspect it. It sizzled into nothingness. Morgan smiled at the shape forming before his eyes.

  “Husband,” a soft voice called between hammer strokes. “You need to eat and drink. It is almost dinner and you’ve had not a bite all day.”

  Morgan looked toward the voice, but the blacksmith acted as if he hadn’t heard a thing. The woman was young and didn’t have the beauty of the women Morgan had encountered of late, but she had a quality about her and a fierce scowl on her face. It didn’t change as her eyes moved between her husband’s back and Morgan’s face. It reminded him of his mother’s look when he and his brothers got caught doing one of the many things they had been told not to.

  “I believe a short break from sword making would benefit us,” Morgan told the blacksmith as he looked at the wife. The blacksmith ignored him as well and continued to work. Morgan moved around behind him and waited for the hammer to rise, then grabbed the blacksmith’s forearm, halting it. “It is not polite to ignore your good wife, who is most correct. A short break is all, then we can begin again.”

  The blacksmith tried to pull his arm free, but Morgan held it firm. He didn’t want to hurt the man, but the smith would work without stopping until the job was finished. Under different circumstances, Morgan would let him.

  The child Morgan saw on his first night at the blacksmith’s stood holding her mother’s leg. She looked up at him and smiled. Morgan smiled back and winked. “Da, I’m hungry. Ma say we have to wait on you, Da, but I’m hungry.”

  “I have much to do yet,” the blacksmith growled.

  “Your da will be along as soon as he washes,” Morgan said, dismissing the blacksmith’s comment with a wave and a smile for the girl.

  The blacksmith jerked his arm and Morgan let it go. Dropping the hammer on the floor, he stalked off to wash. The man’s wife didn’t smile
at him, but the scowl was gone as she turned and walked away holding her daughter’s hand. The child looked back over her shoulder, giving him one last smile.

  You are soft, the dragon said.

  And you’re trapped. Trading one prison for another.

  There is honor in this form.

  If I care to be honorable. Maybe I will just throw you in the sea.

  The dragon laughed, then stopped. He could think of no smart retort.

  Morgan waited then asked, Why don’t you help me forge this sword, oh mighty teacher of the dwarven smiths?

  You dislike magic and its consequences.

  I have neither like nor dislike for magic. I only wish to choose when and how it will be used.

  It is true. The smith will not finish by your deadline. I will aid you if you let me.

  Isn’t that what I asked? Let us finish this and I will give it to the blacksmith to polish and sharpen.

  Place me completely in the forge and work the bellows. I will tell you when I am ready for you.

  Morgan did as asked and worked the bellows. The air whooshed over the coals sending sparks and ashes up the chimney. He fell into a steady pace, not looking at the blade. He would wait for the dragon’s next instruction. The image of a sword flashed into his mind. It had the shape the blacksmith had been working, except it was finished.

  Now take the hilt and concentrate on the image. Just as in the past, repeat the incantation. The sword looked like it would flow into the coals at any moment. He couldn’t use the tongs for fear of damaging what was already done.

  Take it. Hurry. It won’t harm you. The words didn’t make Morgan any more comfortable with the idea. He reached into the forge and magic seeped from the sword to encompass his hand. Say the words. Morgan’s face contorted almost painfully as he formed the harsh words of a language long dead. Over and over, they passed his lips, while all the while he kept the image of the sword in his mind’s eye.

  Step back. Pull the sword from the forge. Morgan did as instructed. The blacksmith has a silver guard and ball for the handle. Fetch them from his supplies. Morgan found them on a shelf along with other sword-making supplies. All were covered in dust. The blacksmith hadn’t lied about not making swords often.