The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “What’s your name, Soldier, so I can tell Fredrik who he faces today?”

  “Marloy, Commander of Torfellon’s First Foot,” he said to the young man who still seemed more interested in the axe he picked up than the war raging around them.

  “Fair enough. Follow me.”

  They had walked fifty paces before a band of six dwarves saw them and charged in their direction. He had called his men into battle formation when the young man stopped. “Wait here,” he ordered and walked toward the charging dwarves.

  *****

  Dra, I may need help.

  Don’t show fear. Dwarves can smell it. I would tell you to kill them, but you wouldn’t, so just do as you always do and know I will not let you perish.

  So much for divine intervention, Morgan thought. He dropped the axe at his feet and held both hands in front of him, gesturing at the dwarves to stop. He heard the men behind him brace for the impending attack. Morgan noticed the dwarves were not looking at him, but past him. He reached back and drew his sword and in that motion the lead dwarf took notice. He carried a large hammer in front of him. Morgan moved three paces to his left, drawing the eyes of all the dwarves toward him. “Stop!” he yelled.

  Five of the dwarves slowed, giving the leader room to use his hammer. They grinned at Morgan; it wasn’t friendly as much as knowing what was about to happen. The leader twisted at the waist and swung the hammer. Morgan lashed out with his sword and struck the hammer head. Runes lit up the daylight in a flash like lightning right before the hammer head shattered in a clap of thunder, knocking all the dwarves to the ground, as well another group of soldiers from both sides more than a hundred paces away.

  Morgan slid his sword back into the scabbard and shook his stinging hand. He walked among the groaning dwarves, who looked shaken and confused but not damaged. “Tell Stonehead Morgan sends his regards and to come later to pay his respects to Fredrik. He will know what I mean.” He walked back, stopping to pick up the axe and meet the wide-eyed stares of the men.

  “Come, Marloy, before some other bunch who won’t listen comes running and I have to get angry.” Morgan could see Fredrik riding toward them, for which he was happy. “Stay here,” he ordered and walked ten paces to wait. Fredrik brought Blackstar to a halt and dropped his sword point first into the ground. In his younger days, Morgan guessed, he would have just jumped down from the beast, but now he needed both hands free to get to the ground.

  “His name is Marloy. If the bodies littering the ground around him speak of his prowess, then he will be someone you would be proud to have fought.”

  Fredrik gave a half smile and pulled his sword free from the earth. He held it like a warrior as he walked forward. “Marloy, it is an honor to meet you today on the field of battle.” Morgan walked along beside him.

  “Is it true you are a clan chieftain?”

  “It is, of the Northern Clan.”

  “If I kill you will he—” Marloy motioned with his sword “—kill us in return?”

  “No, not unless you and your men try something. You have my word.”

  Morgan was listening, but his attention was on the dwarves in the distance. Five were up and standing while one was on his knees, crying and holding the remains of his hammer in his hands. The clang of metal just a few arm’s lengths away startled him. No matter how honorable Fredrik proclaimed this would be, Morgan didn’t want to watch him die. He had done everything else Fredrik asked, but this was too much.

  Marloy fought Fredrik like he would have any enemy soldier that stepped into the space in front of him. He didn’t know at first the man before him had so little strength that a brief show was all there would be. Marloy’s blade slipped between Fredrik’s ribs and the broadsword he had carried for fifty summers fell from his grasp.

  Morgan could tell it confused Marloy, and it confused him even more when Fredrik reached out and put a hand on his shoulder, thanking the man who had buried a sword in his chest. Fredrik fell back, sliding off the blade, and Morgan stepped in to catch him, lifting the man who was tall but had the weight of a child of twelve summers.

  “Marloy, put Fredrik’s sword in the scabbard on Blackstar for me. Then, I suppose, you men should go back to the war,” Morgan said, carrying the chieftain in his arms like a child toward the camp not visible in the distance. Blackstar turned unbidden and followed along behind, reins dragging the ground. It would be a long walk, with a heart heavier than the burden in his arms.

  A wagon with riders arrived to help Morgan. He laid Fredrik in the back while a rider tried to grab Blackstar’s reins. The war horse wasn’t having it and almost toppled the rider and his horse to the ground. “Come here, you ornery beast. Your master is gone and you should be nice. One of these men might have to feed you.” To the riders, Morgan said, “Take us to the command tent and send someone ahead to clear a place for the general’s father.”

  At the command tent, two soldiers tried to help with the body and again Blackstar became defensive. Morgan was the only one he’d let touch Fredrik and he went so far as to follow him inside the tent. “Leave the horse be unless you want him to bring the tent down around our heads. I’ll lead him out when I’m done.” He laid Fredrik in the place they had prepared for him and placed his broadsword lengthwise on his chest. He took the man’s hands and arranged them on the hilt. It was a solemn pose; he didn’t know what to do beyond that, but he hoped Jarol would approve.

  “Are you Morgan?” a soldier asked. “There is a letter for you and one for the general.”

  Morgan took the letter and the horse’s reins and left the tent in search of Lorna. He tied the horse to a picket and saw Lorna had found him. “Fredrik is inside if you want to pay your respects before we leave.”

  “Where is your horse?” she asked, looking around.

  Morgan dropped his head. He had forgotten about his horse. “It’s out on the battlefield somewhere.” Lorna gave him a disapproving look and went in the tent shaking her head. He had a moment, so he opened the letter.

  Morgan, I regret meeting you in these last days of my life. Had I been fit instead of sick, I would have wrested you from Queen Verlainia’s grasp and taken you north. You would have liked it there. It seems, though, fate and a dragon god have plans for you and have given you something far greater than what I could have, so maybe it is for the best. Jarol is my son and he inherits not only my lands but the golden circlet of clan chieftain I wear on my head. But, for the service you render me today, I give you Blackstar. I informed Jarol of this in the letter I left for him, so he doesn’t send someone to chase you down.

  It’s only fitting you have a war horse to ride when you’re not riding a dragon. I still can’t help but smile when I think of that night you flew on the dragon’s back. I must close with regret I’ll not see what or who you befriend next.

  Fredrik

  Lorna returned with misty eyes and the look of a person with something to say. “You let them kill him?” she blurted out in anger and anguish.

  “It’s what he wanted and why we went.” Morgan sat on Blackstar, looking down at his friend, who had crossed her arms, holding herself. “Are you coming? I’ll tell you on the way if you want to hear about it.”

  “You’re stealing his horse. They’ll—”

  “Do nothing. He gave Blackstar to me,” he said and waved the letter back and forth. “Can we go now?”

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  Thirty-Seven

  Jarol watched from a knoll as the battle moved away, his forces pushing the Southlanders back, his face chiseled into a permanent scowl. Lieutenant Massey sat next to him, watching and commenting on pockets of fighting the initial confrontation had broken into. He caught her studying him from time to time, but he knew what she saw would be like reading stone. His army was winning the day, so why was he bothered to distraction by what he saw?

  The elves of the Black Mountains had betrayed him. It was no surprise at all. Whatever King Michael had given them would be al
l they would add to their coffers. He would share nothing of the spoils with them as promised by the treaty.

  The army of men from Rohans Town and the guards f0r Raile and Tarin, including Massey, who now sat on the horse next to him, fought better than he would have given them credit. He wouldn’t hold that against them. Not on purpose, but just the same they had opened the Southland defenses and Raile and Tarin rode in among the Southland army, throwing down their swords, rattling their chains and begging for mercy and asylum. It’s what he gets for trying to have his enemy do his dirty work.

  Massey ordered her archer to shoot them and he put a shaft through Raile’s neck, but Tarin, seeing his father fall from the saddle, slapped his horse into a run deeper into the Southland ranks and out of range of the archer. Jarol cursed his enemy. How could they not strike down two men in chains with just swords for protection? Massey sought him out and reported the incident and Jarol dressed her down. His words were harsh and excessive as he ranted about rats and men and how the two can be the same. How family could let you down when you needed them more than anyone.

  Jarol regretted everything about that confrontation with Massey. She wasn’t the family member he was angry at. No, he was somewhere over a hill out of Jarol’s sight, begging an enemy soldier to push an arm’s length of steel through his gut. Had Fredrik been hale and fit, it would be Jarol sitting alongside of him on the knoll. He knew Verlainia would have given the army to his father. He had visions of returning to camp to find his father hacked to pieces, his wasted body defiled by some Southlander who would brag to his fellows about the deed.

  “Massey!” Jarol barked.

  “General.”

  “Ride to camp and bring me news of father.”

  “News, General?”

  “Yes, and Massey, I was out of line—”

  Lieutenant Massey tugged the reins her horse galloped in the direction of the camp. “I’m sorry,” he finished. She was an officer and had her order. She was right to be angry and didn’t have listen to his apology.

  *****

  Massey rode straight to the command tent. She saw two people and recognized them both. The odd thing was the man, Morgan, was sitting on her uncle’s prized war horse. She steered her horse directly for them, her own anger looking for a release. She heard them speaking.

  “Can we go now?”

  “Yes. Let’s,” the woman said.

  Massey wasn’t letting them ride away. Jarol had just tried to apologize to her and she had rode away before being dismissed. He wouldn’t hold that against her. But if he found she let Morgan ride off on his father’s horse, he would have her head on a pole. She maneuvered to block the man and horse, drawing her sword.

  “Get off the horse or I’ll—” Massey, in her haste to stop what she thought might have been horse thievery, forgot about the horse’s reputation. Blackstar would not have his way impeded by anything except his chosen master and it did not pay to get too close. The horse lunged forward of his own accord and bit her horse on the neck. Her horse stumbled in its effort to get away from the angry beast and flung her from its back. Massey grunted when the hard ground broke her fall. Keeping her wits about her, she rolled over and crawled away from the frightened horse. One good kick and she could end up with broken bones or worse.

  “Whoa, whoa, it’s ok, big fella. You got the scary woman,” Morgan said to the horse. She looked up. She would give him scary woman with a fist in the nose. He patted Blackstar’s neck, trying to calm him, and to her surprise it worked. She wouldn’t have believed it had she not seen it happening right in front of her. Uncle’s horse had a reputation and only ever let three men touch him. Four now. Fredrik, Lon the stable master and Jarol, who wasn’t a sure thing. It depended on Blackstar’s mood if it allowed Jarol to ride. A hand appeared in front of her face. She studied it and then looked up at its owner. He looked concerned and amused, if it was possible to feel both at the same time.

  “Sorry. Let me help you,” he said to her, offering his hand. The amusement had vanished. Massey took it and he pulled. She was on her feet with no effort on her part. He was stronger than she expected. Then, to her surprise, he reached up and brushed his fingers through her hair. She batted his hand away then saw pieces of grass falling to the ground. He reached into his pocket and handed her a letter. “There is a letter in the tent for Jarol. Tell him his father died exactly the way he wanted to.” She looked up from the letter. “He fought an honorable soldier.” Morgan paused. Massey saw pain, then a sad smile on his face. “He even thanked him, which surprised his foe. I laid his body in the tent with his sword in the most respectful manner I knew.”

  Massey had read the note while listening to the man standing in front of her. The realization of it filled her with loss and the tears that had formed in her eyes rolled through the dust on her face. She loved her uncle. He let her be what she wanted to be, a warrior. It was against her mother’s wish. She had wanted Massey to grow up and marry a high-ranking clan member. Morgan reached for the letter and she let him take it. An unnatural shadow blotted out the sun. Massey looked up, dumbfounded by what she saw.

  “It’s a dragon,” she said, shielding her eyes with a hand.

  “I know. If you’re through with us, I need to go,” Morgan said. “It will follow me away from the camp.”

  Massey was distracted; she had never seen a dragon before. What did he say? “Follow you?” she asked, watching him mount Blackstar.

  “Tell Jarol I’m sorry and I’ll see him again someday.” Massey stepped out of the way as Morgan rode north, in the direction the dragon was flying. The woman who had been silent the whole time gave her a sad look and followed. Morgan hadn’t answered her question.

  *****

  Queen Verlainia stared into the shallow, silver-plated bowl of water. She turned her head right to left, then up and down. Unsure, she stopped her examination for a moment and, as if not believing her eyes, began again. It had been less than half a moon since that terrible young man stole her chains and damaged the throne. The magic that had cost her nothing for so many summers, keeping her as youthful as any elf a hundred summers, vanished. She saw no wrinkle or line on her slack face, then opened her mouth wide, then wrinkled her nose. She made many faces that last moon would have made her laugh at such a childish display. But not now.

  “My Queen!” Qan bellowed, catching her unawares. He had strode into her private chambers without knocking. Embarrassed and angry that her body guard might have caught a glimpse, she immediately pondered a proper punishment.

  “Qan—”

  “Apologies, My Queen, but the matter is most urgent. I came at once.”

  “It had better be, my faithful servant, or Mobar will be very lonely with just his brother’s head to talk to.”

  “An army approaches. I have sent out scouts to gauge its size and mobilized the soldiers.”

  “What army? Have my forces in the south been defeated so soon?”

  “No,” Qan said in an even tone. “It is the Dark Ones, My Queen. A rider near death brought us the news. I sent him to the healers. I thought he may be able to answer more questions later. He is an orc, the son of a sub-chief.”

  The timing couldn’t be a coincidence, Verlainia thought. “Bring me my armor and sword. It seems our enemy has been watching and waiting. They have caught us at our weakest, with Jarol and the army committed in the south.”

  “We are not weak, My Queen, we are just... thin at the moment. We have to get a rider to the general so he is at least aware. We cannot trust this to a bird. If his campaign goes well, he will send us reinforcements.”

  “Send the message for his eyes only. If word reaches our army beyond its commander, it could well splinter his forces. The soldiers will want to return to their villages and farms. They will desert. Send riders to check the Northern Clan at Icefall, and the dwarf and orc cities in the east. They are closer to the Dark Ones’ stronghold, yet not in their direct route to us. They may have passed them by to thr
ow all they have at Kor’Tarnaeil.”

  “Can I release the guards you have in the dungeon? The enemy will arrive during the night and we could use their elvish eyes on the walls.”

  Verlainia had to think about Qan’s request. It was valid and sensible. Those were royal guards and, while she was still angry, it made no sense to keep warriors locked up in a time of crisis. “Yes, set them free. When this is over and we’ve sent my dark cousins scurrying back to their hole in the ground, we will revisit Morgan’s crimes with double the amount of searchers.”

  Verlainia changed into a soft leather tunic and leggings to wear under her armor. Many times, Qan and his brother had tried to talk the queen into a set of plain armor with a dull black finish to use in battle. While their reasoning was sound, to make her less identifiable on the battlefield or wall, she wouldn’t have it. The armor, highly polished silver trimmed in gold from helm to greaves, would make her a target shining like a beacon for every enemy archer on the field of battle. But she was the queen. Born from a long line of kings and queens, she thought arrows could not touch her royal personage while the twins Qan and Mobar prayed and grumbled behind her back. She would live through a rain of arrows because her loyal servants would have them buried in their backs, protecting her.

  Adorned in her armor, she stormed out of her private room. She passed her throne and the great hall, the sight of which only made her angrier at everything, at dark elves and young men with innocent smiles waiting to rob you of your most prized possessions. Verlainia climbed the steps to the top of the wall with Mobar and Qan on her heels. The orc twins would not leave her, ever. Even if the queen herself ordered it, she would have to kill the twins and have their bodies removed if she decided no longer wanted them by her side during this siege.

  Looking out into the night, every soul on the wall saw fires flicker into existence in the distance. The invading army set up camp with the quiet and efficiency of a snowcat stalking its prey. They were elves, after all; they would not march to her walls and shout insults, beat their shields or otherwise try to intimidate the occupants of the fortress. A single torch moved along the edge of the wood, leaving a trail of small individual fires in its wake. The light from the fires cast showed silhouettes of archers, and then a lone voice called an order.