The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Warriors of Heltstone Hall, you let these soft Southland bastards stop you.” Using his knees, he guided the war horse into the middle of the ranks. “What would Chief Stonehead say? What would your ancestors say if they saw fifty mighty dwarves held back by a few pups in armor?” Jarol heard the dwarves’ angry shouts and didn’t doubt they directed some at him. He took no offense to what they said in the heat of battle. Being prodded by a beardless man of twenty-four summers, general or not, was sure to fuel a little anger.

  Ahead of him were two lines of shields butting against one another. Weapons were shoved in between or swung over the top of the shields, hoping to kill a foe on the other side. The Southlanders fought with spears and swords and his dwarves with hammer and axe.

  “Make way,” Jarol shouted and commanded his horse forward. Two dwarves leaning into their shields, pushing against the enemy line, turned and looked up. The horse reared on its hind legs as their comrades pulled them away. Iron-shod hooves crashed down on Southland shields and pushed them back. Jarol leaned right, then left, swinging swords at the soldiers’ heads on either side of the two now under his horse. Their shields in front and weapons held low from jabbing at targets less than chest high left their heads unguarded. Two more fell, and a hole formed.

  The dwarves didn’t need an invitation and formed up on Jarol. They stood on the fallen bodies of the Southland soldiers, hammering and pushing the next and then the next. Jarol heard hooves as Massey and her horse soldiers came back around to hit the Southland force again. She saw him in the thick of things and hit the enemy head on instead of just harassing the outer column. He would talk to her about that later. For now, it had a positive effect.

  The Southland officer directed his rear forces toward the twenty horses that just hit them from the side. There were three rows left in front of him. He commanded his horse forward, pushing soldiers out of the way as he continued to strike at them. The officer was twenty-five paces from him and Jarol recognized him as the major who had spoken to him so belligerently just three days back. He was accompanied by two junior officers on horseback, one on either side. Now there would be a reckoning. With his knee, he aimed his horse at the three men and charged. His black cape billowing behind him, his blood pumped to the beat of his horse’s hooves. He smiled when they saw his approach and drew their swords; their cocksure faces were not so confident anymore. They thought they would slaughter fifty dwarves, but a new reality set in. His smile grew into a feral grin when he heard the war cry that accompanied the arrival of the orcs he had sent for. The sound of running feet mixed with the grunts and roars of battle lust. This small portion of his army was still outnumbered, but now the odds were in their favor.

  Jarol urged his war horse to charge, with no intention of trying to slow it. He would drive it into the major’s horse with the force of a battering ram. Horse and man both would both be down and then he would deal of the other two. It was a plan ─ until both the junior officers charged. They rode side by side, so close together there was no room to pass between them. He guided his horse to the right, as if to go wide around, then they angled hard to intercept. He waited until they were too close to turn with any effectiveness, turned left and leaned away as he passed. The major tried to turn his horse and run, seeing the inevitable situation unfold. It was the stupid move of a coward, though Jarol was sure the major didn’t think so. War horses trained in the north were taught to overcome their natural instincts. They ran through things unless commanded to go around or jump over, and attacked anything on the ground in front or behind, stomping and kicking in a deadly attack.

  The major’s horse was broadside when they collided. The impact wasn’t as fierce as Jarol expected due to a stutter step by the major’s horse. It had reared and twisted, resulting in a glancing blow. Jarol and his war horse remained upright, but the major and his horse fell over, pinning the major’s legs under his animal. Turning his horse, Jarol found his other two adversaries bearing down on him. He picked one and rode to meet him. As soon as he had his horse in position, he stood up in the stirrups and leaned toward his foe. He swung both swords as he went past, powering through the officers trying to block him and knocking the man off his horse. Jarol turned his horse around. This time he would engage the other junior officer. He found a breath later it wasn’t necessary when an arrow came through the man’s throat. In the distance, an orc waved his bow for Jarol to see. Now his previous foe fled, riding south as fast as his horse would take him.

  It was time to reintroduce himself to the major. Jarol walked his horse back toward the man, who was trying to calm his horse so he could mount. The uncooperative horse turned in circles, preventing the major from finding the proper balance to throw his leg over and mount.

  “You thought so little of my army and were brave enough at the time to say so. Now I will give you the chance to prove what you said is true. A brave warrior like yourself should have no problem beating this dog of a Northman into obedience.” The major grunted and, ignoring Jarol, tried his horse again. “If you mount that horse I’ll have my archers put ten arrows in your hide. The first arrow will kill you and the rest are because I can. Fight me, and if you win, I’ll let you go.”

  The major roared in frustration. He let loose his horse’s reins and grabbed his shield before the horse could run away. Drawing his sword, he turned to face Jarol. “I will kill you like the dog you are.”

  “That’s the spirit, Major, keep those insults coming. At least one of you had the sense to leave in a hurry.”

  “He will bring reinforcements and they will crush you.”

  “That’s good, Major. I’m looking forward to it. I’ve never been crushed. In a few breaths, when I’m done with you, can you tell me how it feels?” Jarol caught the major’s sloppy swing on his sword and returned it with two of his own, one against his shield and the other his sword. He wanted to jar the man’s arm into numbness. Jarol attacked again and again like a one-two cadence on a drum. He drove the man backward, away from his horse, so there was no chance he could try to flee again.

  “I’m not feeling this crush yet. Is it possible your skill lies in insulting your opponent till they are tired of hearing the drivel you spew and take their own life?” Making the man angry proved a good tactic and too easy. No man in Jarol’s army could achieve such rank and be so undisciplined with his sword. It was time to finish the pig and get back to his men. Jarol attacked, then backed off and let the major retaliate. When he turned, Jarol’s sword flicked his wrist, spinning it in the major’s grip to send it flying end over end to land ten paces away. Following through, he stepped forward and thrust, spearing the major in the neck as he grasped for the dagger in his belt. It was a killing strike, but to Jarol it wasn’t enough. An additional push severed the spine, and the blade exited out the back. “Some dogs bite. Looks like you learned that too late.” Jarol realized he had really disliked the man. It wasn’t like him to talk so much while killing an enemy, but he couldn’t help himself.

  “General,” Jarol heard behind him. He turned to find an orc and a dwarf standing ten paces away. “The Southland soldiers are retreating. Should we give chase?”

  “How fares the main army? Have we any word?”

  “No, General. There was heavy fighting when we were ordered to aid you.”

  “Then, no. We regroup and rejoin General Arlen and find out where you’re needed most. Let them run; it will only make them more tired when we face them again.” The dwarves and orcs were walking the battlefield, tending to their wounded and providing swift mercy to wounded Southland soldiers. There would be no prisoners. Massey and her horse soldiers joined Jarol as he mounted his warhorse.

  “I see you scratched the itch you’ve had since meeting that man.”

  “He was more like a festering boil,” Jarol replied. “Send a rider to General Arlen and inform him we’ve sent this small group of Southland soldiers running south, and find out where he needs these soldiers ordered to. Inform him I�
�ll also be joining him.”

  About halfway through their march to join the main army, the rider returned. “General, sir, General Arlen says to take your time. The whole of the Southland army has retreated. It started when the left flank of the Southland army—about a thousand soldiers—grew tired of how well our elven archers could find the soft spots in the armor all the while fighting against our clan brothers. They broke and ran about the time we cut their numbers in half, leaving their main body exposed. Our men filled the hole and General Arlen said he could see the enemy army fall apart. There are still pockets of resistance, but as soon as they see our reinforcements, they’ll flee south. Arlen is holding the army back until you arrive and we hear from the scouts he sent to find where the Southland army regroups.”

  “Yesterday we pushed them back barely a thousand paces by the end of the day. Today it may be three thousand. Tomorrow they might be halfway to Torfellon when we’re done with them. I think the queen will be happy with our progress.” There were cheers from the horse soldiers, who then spread the word to the orcs and dwarves marching behind them. More cheers rang out and then it became a joint effort. In camp that evening, Crag, chief of the Goblin Clan, argued with Stonehead about his losses. He felt the people were being used sorely by Jarol and General Arlen. Stonehead recounted the losses by all the clans to Crag and that his dwarves fared no better. Insults were traded; Jarol stood watching as they drew weapons and Crag took an ending blow from Stonehead’s axe to the forehead.

  Arlen would sort it all out and keep the camp from falling into chaos, Jarol thought as he entered the command tent and fell into his cot. Tomorrow, they would find the Southland army and it would all begin again. Minus one mouthy goblin.

  *****

  In a cave many days north of Icefall, an ancient shaman leaned heavily on a staff made of a black wood and topped with the curved black claw of a dragon, longer than a man’s leg. The staff in its entirety was covered in silver runes similar to those covering the body of the shaman. His ancient frame, hunched and knobby, was naked except for a loin cloth tied around his waist. He stood waiting, impervious to the bitter cold. Torches as tall as an orc formed an outer circle and cast a cold glow on the swirling mass of silver tattoos that covered his body. Rituals performed for near a thousand summers magically bonded together the dark elf shaman and his staff.

  Robed acolytes formed an inner circle, each holding a staff of power. They stood silent, waiting for the ritual to begin. In the center, lying on a rune-covered stone alter, was a girl captured from a village near the Northern Clan. The girl bled at the wrists and ankles from struggling against the ropes that bound her. She reeked of fear, but her terror-filled cries fell on deaf ears. The shaman pushed a wispy strand of hair behind his long, pointed ear. His dark skin, once in beautiful contrast to his runes, had faded to a mottled gray under the silver tattoos.

  Outside the reach of the torchlight, guards stood against the cavern walls, holding hundreds of captives with rough-spun bags over their heads. Gagged and bound, they squirmed in fear and bitter cold. The shaman continued staring past the alter and acolytes into the darkness of the cavern. A giant skull rested its chin on the floor facing him. Behind was the rest of its skeleton, every bone in place, with wings fifty paces long stretched out at its sides. They had carved silver runes in a precise order into every bone, the process taking half the shaman’s long life to complete. Instead of necromancy, an art at which the shaman was highly skilled, the shaman had worked toward creation. A dragon spirit would be called to embody the newly formed living flesh. The deaths of the remaining few dragons on Torinth would turn his creation into a living god.

  The shaman’s only regret was the bones were not from the two dragon gods. They were, however, thousands of summers old, the dragon having lived during the time when the dragon gods reigned over the skies of Torinth, according to the ancient scrolls. Any magic living in the ancient bones would be more potent than bones plucked from the carcasses of those few remaining living dragons. For too long, his people lived without their beloved dragon goddess. Drae had perished trying to overthrow her mate, Dra. An ancestor of the shaman had assisted in the plot. Now, even the satisfaction they had achieved through his ancestor capturing and enslaving Dra’s spirit had evaporated. Murder and theft of their most prized possession by Queen Verlainia’s hired mercenaries dampened their will for revenge.

  Now, it seemed, chance had favored them. Verlainia’s lust for power and desire for war with the Southlands and her loss of Dra’s chains were the signs his people had been waiting for. Now was the time to strike. The small army they sent against Kor’Tarnaeil would keep Verlainia distracted until it was too late. Death would descend from the skies and leave Kor’Tarnaeil a pile of scorched stone and ashes. A faint glow formed in front of the skull. Moonlight beamed through a large hole in the roof of the cavern and illuminated the frozen floor. The shaman placed his staff in a hole at the head of the altar. They had formed the hole and the shaft to a shape that allowed it to fit only one way. The talon of his staff pointed at the dragon’s head.

  A figure walked from the darkness between two of the acolytes toward the shaman. She was dressed in furs and jewels, but wore a simple crown on her head. Holding her hands out in front of her, she carried an ornately carved wooden box. Kneeling before the shaman, she extended her arms up, offering the box with a reverent pose. The shaman reached out and removed the knife from its cushioned cradle and turned toward the girl. Standing, the beautiful dark elf walked out of the circle into the dark. This ritual was the only time in their history the dark elves would see their queen kneel before another elf.

  At some unspoken command, the acolytes chanted, and the tempo increased with each new verse. The acolytes’ staffs glowed dim at first, then as the chant progressed, they became so bright they blotted out the torchlight. The shaman stood over the bound girl, watching the moonlight cast over the lower half of the skull, oblivious to the girl’s struggles. When the moonlight reached the boney crest of the dragon skull, he raised both arms in the air. A hooded acolyte raised his staff, then drove it into the floor. Lightning danced across the rune-scribed floor to the altar. The girl’s body arched, stretching the ropes that held her. In a loud voice, the shaman intoned a single word of power and drove the knife into the girl’s chest.

  No one heard the girl cry out. She collapsed just as the runes on the shaman’s staff ignited, shooting a red lightning bolt at the dragon skull. The lightning hit and spread, lighting every rune on the skeleton. Two guards brought another captive. One slipped the ropes off the corpse and rolled the girl’s body onto the floor. Together they placed the new captive in her place. Attaching the ropes to her arms and legs, one guard pulled the hood while the other picked up the girl’s body and hurried to place it before the dragon skull. Before the new sacrifice could begin, another acolyte thumped its staff on the floor and same scene played out. As they carried away the tenth sacrifice—a young orc—the eye sockets of the dragon skull began to glow.

  As they laid the fiftieth body on the pile in front of the dragon, it stood. Its eyes were black pools, and the bones were covered in woven cords of thick red muscle. The hundredth sacrifice saw it enclosed in skin and scales, the wings wrapped in heavy black skin like leather, but the eyes were still devoid of color. Claws, teeth, scales and horns reflected light with a healthy shine, but when the last of the captives was sacrificed, the eyes had still not changed to the amber reptilian slits all dragons shared. The shaman approached the dragon to beg forgiveness for his mistake in creating the proper runes for its eyes.

  “Drae’Elara, please forgive me. I have found my skills wanting. I will strive to restore your sight.”

  Mmm, you are the chosen slaves of Drae. I recognize your smell. The shaman looked around to see if any of the others heard the dragon speak within their heads. It didn’t look as if they did.

  “We were her favorite among the peoples of Torinth and we have missed her sorely. Her sp
irit, destroyed by Dra, is beyond our grasp. We searched the ancient scrolls for names of the eldest whose blood would be untainted. We sought you who hatched from one of her oldest clutches. The world has changed and there are but few dragons left. We long to make you our goddess.”

  The dragon lowered her head and inhaled. What is the purpose of all this carrion piled before me?

  “They are the sacrifices that restored you to us. I thought you may hunger upon awakening.”

  The dragon laughed in a malicious tone. Drae’Elara might have enjoyed such a feast—she was lazy that way—but I am not her. The spirit of the one you sought was destroyed at death. Your ancient scrolls did not tell you that, it seems. I was drawn to your summoning, for which you should be thankful. My sister Drae’Elara was weak and, like our mother, she doted on her slaves. As you will find out, I enjoy my meals screaming in terror while their bodies burn before me.

  The shaman, for all his earlier confidence, felt his insides turn to water. He immediately searched his memory for a ritual of banishing. His weathered face must have told the dragon what it needed to know. It was his second and last mistake of the night. The dragon’s head dipped and his jaws snapped closed, leaving a pair of bony legs to fall to the floor. His lower jaw moved once, and the shaman was no more. The dragon had no desire to seek the shaman’s loyalty or keep him around. He knew the one who gave him life could take it away again. It was easier to destroy than create. His creator, his enemy, was no more.

  Who rules the favored slaves of Drae?

  The queen walked forward slowly and stopped well beyond the reach of snapping jaws. For the second time that night—and in her time as queen—she knelt before another. This time, it was for survival. She leaned forward until her nose touched the ground and waited. Rise and face me, the dragon ordered. I have dwelt in darkness for so long, put there by my father, Dra. The dragon stretched, looked around the cavern and then back down at the queen. I have many questions.