Return of the Wizard King

by Chad Corrie

  Chapter 7

  Though we now face some hard days before us,

  I still hold to Aero’s dream. We shall once again be a

  great empire, ruling as one race to the glory of

  Aero Tripton Collonus, the Eternal Emperor.

  —Marcus Hectoris Septara, second emperor of Colloni

  Reigned 2810 BV–2782 BV

  The soft breeze tickled Dugan’s hair, waking him with a jerk. His movements were swift as he scanned the surrounding forest in which he lay, occasionally tilting an ear to the breeze. Crouched amid the undergrowth, he found no threat nearby. A good sign, but nothing indicative of the reality of his situation.

  The muscles on his naked torso tensed when a nearby rustling had him searching out its source amid the birds’ songs and crickets’ chirps. In short order a squirrel made its presence known on a tree trunk. He sighed and began to relax. Then he heard the screech of a hawk in the distance. He’d learned to both despise and fear the shrill cry; it told him the hunters now knew his location.

  At the sound, the squirrel dashed into the thick canopy of leaves. Dugan followed suit and broke into a run. He’d been running from the hunters for five days now, taking what food and rest he could when he could. No matter how far or long he ran, though, he knew they’d never cease their pursuit. As long as an escaped gladiator was on Colloni, it was fair game to hunt and retrieve him for a bounty. Given his recent actions, Dugan was sure he’d fetch a fine sum, not that he looked like so great a catch in his breechcloth and battered boots. But if he could make it to the coast, he had a chance. At least that was what he kept telling himself.

  As he ran through the Remolosin Woods with his muscles methodically pumping his famished body forward, he gathered his thoughts. His destination was the coast. But once he emerged from the woods and into the open fields, he wouldn’t be able to cloak his movements. Not that he was doing such a great job of it now. Speed had been more his ally than stealth. Leaping over a fallen tree, he heard a hawk’s cry and stopped abruptly. His fiery green eyes squinted against the scattering sunlight as he strained his ears.

  He heard barking in the distance. One . . . no, two dogs. He cringed when he saw movement in the underbrush behind him. They were closer than he’d thought! Dugan ran for about another thirty feet and then jumped as high as he could into a thick collection of branches, getting enough of a boost to reach a high-placed limb of a tall oak.

  Not missing a heartbeat, he pulled himself up into the foliage and further cover. Within moments, two sleek brown dogs tore out of the underbrush and halted beneath the tree where he hid. Sniffing around the mossy base, they quickly started pawing the trunk and barking.

  Dugan’s heart galloped in time to his rapid breaths, but to survive, he had to control the rising stew of fear and rage boiling in his veins. Closing his eyes, he pushed the dogs from his mind so he could bring a plan clearly into focus. It had to be timed just right or his life was forfeit. Straining his hearing beyond the bellowing hounds, he sat as still as a jungle cat and waited for the hunters to arrive.

  From his vantage point, he easily caught sight of movement amid the forest growth, moving faster toward him with each passing moment. Soon he could hear voices and running feet pounding the ground with no attempt at stealth. The hunters were so excited that he couldn’t understand much of their conversation. All he could glean was something about gaining some coin and enjoying his death. Drawing a breath, Dugan poised himself for the attack. There would be no second chances.

  Dugan watched the first hunter move out of the forest’s undergrowth. He was tall for an elf—about six and a half feet if he had to guess. He wore the leather armor common to all elves engaged in the hunt, a poetic take on the collecting of bounties from debtors, criminals, deserting soldiers, escaped slaves, and anyone else who might bring in some decent coin.

  The leather armor the majority of hunters wore was preferred since it was easier to wear, maintain, repair, and didn’t make much noise when worn or carried. Dugan made note of the lead elf’s armor. The dull wheat hue wasn’t the tree-bark shade that was common. He realized he was dealing with an experienced hunter; the discoloration could only have been caused by constant sun exposure and use. Taking out a skilled hunter would be harder, but Dugan was confident he could.

  A second figure emerged right on the heels of the first. He too wore the armor of a hunter, but it looked newer, almost freshly made. Though it was almost impossible for a human to guess an elf’s age, he surmised the first figure was the other’s superior by the way the second carried himself around the other. So then there was only one real threat.

  The hunters reached the tree and drew their gladii. Both blades appeared to have seen action in recent days. As they neared, Dugan could smell the aroma of sage, nutmeg, and pine sap mingling with their sweat and armor. He’d heard it called “the hunter’s scent.” The fragrance was supposed to aid hunters by better cloaking their own scent in the wild, where most of their prey often ended up. From both present and previous samples, he didn’t see how it could mask anyone’s scent from detection. If anything it made their victims only too aware of their approaching presence.

  As they cleared the remaining distance, Dugan remained as still as stone. The older elf moved forward with an even gait as he called the dogs away from the tree. The younger one stayed behind, wary and observant of his surroundings.

  Seeing an opportunity, Dugan leapt from the tree. His large frame crashed onto the older elf like thunder, sending him face first into the earth and unconsciousness. From on top of the fallen elf, Dugan glared at the younger one. The hunter rattled off something in Elonum as he rushed forward and took a swing with his gladius.

  Dugan dodged it easily.

  Renewing his attack, the hunter yelled an old invocation for protection to Aerotripton. Dugan grappled the other’s blade away from him, seizing hold of and then crushing the hunter’s wrist with a crackle of tendon and bone. The gladius fell harmlessly at Dugan’s feet as curses flowed from the elf’s lips.

  It was then the dogs bit into Dugan’s flesh. The hounds were trained to take down their prey with the least amount of damage. For “the better the prey, the better the pay” went the old hunter adage. Most of the time, this was achieved by attacking the legs, which brought about a fall, ensuring an easy capture. He’d no plans on cooperating with such tactics.

  He picked both of the beasts up by the scruff of their necks. Their vicious snarls and saliva-splattering attempts at biting his hands and arms didn’t faze him. He’d fought fiercer beasts in the arena.

  With a grunt, he hurled the protesting animals into the nearest tree. There was a thick thud upon impact, followed by shrieking barks, small whimpers, then silence. The action left smears of blood trailing down the thick, mossy trunk. Under it rested the dogs’ still bodies, their heads bent at awkward angles. Just one more threat remained.

  The hunter’s wide green eyes darted between Dugan’s advancing figure and the unconscious hunter sprawled out a short distance from him. In clear desperation, the young elf charged headlong into Dugan, fists flying. It was the final effort of a cornered animal. Dugan met the elf with trained blows and hardened knuckles. The young hunter was unconscious before hitting the ground.

  Dugan caught his breath. For a moment he stood silent amid the fresh carnage, his eyes taking in the scene—his senses in rapt attention. Confident he was alone once more, he bent down and snapped the necks of his would-be captors, cracking them as if they were simple twigs rather than sentient flesh. Better than they deserved, but he didn’t have the luxury of doing anything more.

  Following this, he quickly looted their belongings. Knowing the leather armor was too small, he picked up the two gladii. They seemed relatively new, despite their recent use, and in good condition. He spun them both in a clockwise motion, creating two circles of steel as he tested their balance. They’d work well enough.

  He finished pawing through the elves’ backpa
cks and belt pouches. He made swift work of the dried meat and pieces of stale bread and cheese among their rations, washing it all down with what water remained in their small waterskins. He hastily relieved them of their sheaths, strapping one on each side of his waist. After a quick check of his surroundings, he was off.

  Confident of a temporary reprieve, he settled into a comfortable jog. He kept the two swords in hand as he ran, eyes ever cautious of his surroundings. The farther he advanced, the more the towering oaks, maples, elms, sycamores, and pines receded in favor of smaller plants and bushes. He slowed his stride as he took note of the increasing grasses spreading across the landscape.

  The Remolosin Woods were really a series of three rings of forests separated by open spaces just like the one he was nearing. He’d heard enough from stories and what he’d now experienced firsthand that he could put two and two together. The forest rings served as a setting in which the great city of Remolos—the only origin city to have survived the Imperial Wars and been inhabited since its foundation—rested like a prize jewel.

  The concept was carried over from the Elyelmic mindset of old in which they sought domination—both of nature and of their people—by a culture of order and control. He’d already crossed through three bands of forest, but he wasn’t really sure what to expect next. He did know once in the open he was at a greater risk, and if this was truly the end of the last forest, he’d have to start adjusting his bearings. By the placement of the sun, he figured he had close to six more hours of light and then some twilight if needed. That would get him somewhere safe for the night, he supposed. He was about to move onward when a voice from behind spoke a command in Telboros.

  “Turn around . . . slowly.” There was an accent in the voice.

  Dugan obeyed, cursing himself for letting his confidence get the better of him. He hadn’t even heard this one’s approach. Besides the accent, the voice possessed a strange quality he couldn’t place. The speaker was purposefully lowering the tone in order to sound imposing.

  The hunter’s hood was pulled over his face, fully hiding it from view. But it wasn’t the face that concerned him. His gaze rested on the arrow pointed his way. Not too many hunters used arrows—at least not the ones he’d heard of and encountered. But whenever one is pointed at you, it’s wise to take precaution. The chance of missing at such a distance if he either stayed or fled was low. Even so, Dugan wouldn’t be taken easily, and readied his gladii for a fight.

  “Drop the swords,” the strangely accented voice ordered again in the same odd timbre. “I said drop them, Dugan.” The words were a low growl.

  His eyes narrowed.

  “I can either shoot your hands and make you drop them or you can do it on your own.” Dugan reluctantly complied. The swords fell to the ground with a muffled rustle of grass. “That’s better,” said the hunter. “Now maybe you’ll listen to me instead of trying to cut me down.”

  “If you’re stalling for time—”

  “I’m not a bounty hunter.” The hunter’s hood was pulled back, revealing the face of an elven woman.

  He was immediately drawn to the shimmering silver hair flowing out and around the woman’s face, whose brilliance was enhanced by her sparkling sapphire eyes. Her complexion was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen: a sort of alabaster hue with a soft gray tint that added some warmth to her pallid skin.

  “I’m here to save you.” The elf lowered her bow. Lithe and graceful, her light frame seemed to float when she moved.

  “Save me?” Dugan’s eyes again narrowed, cold logic taking hold once more. She might have worn a hunter’s cloak—complete with the scent—but the sword he could see strapped to her waist and the rest of her garb didn’t hold up to what he knew was common among the Elyellium. A dark green tunic flowed over brown pants, which were tucked into black cuffed boots.

  “Look,” Dugan started, “I don’t have time—”

  “Would you listen to me?” The woman’s words were rushed and frustrated. “I’m not a hunter! I’m your only way off Colloni.”

  “Right.” Dugan snorted and moved to retrieve his swords. In an eyeblink she’d pulled back her bowstring, pointing the arrow straight at him.

  Dugan’s jaw clenched. He could strike now, should he wish. Even if she did get a good shot in, he could still survive long enough to do some harm. He didn’t need a blade to kill, and his hands could make short work of her thin neck.

  “You had your warning,” he growled.

  “As did you,” she returned. The steel in her voice surprised him. “Just let me explain. I’m willing to help you escape Colloni if you’ll just stop being so pigheaded!”

  “I got this far on my own, and—” He was cut short by shouts of other elves calling out their location. Dugan hissed as he picked up his weapons and sprang into another sprint. But before he could get far he heard the bowstring’s release. He felt a sudden pain in his back which quickly flowed into numbness followed by lightheadedness.

  The next thing he knew he’d fallen on the ground.

  “Why do men always have to be so stubborn?” The question was the last thing he heard as his world was enveloped in darkness.

  Alara glanced again at the slumbering man a short distance from her. She figured he’d wake up soon enough. When he did, she wanted to be ready. In the meantime she finished tending to her bow and kept her falchion within reach. They weren’t out of danger just yet—another reason why she opted to not keep a fire, though it might have benefited them on this cooler evening. Even cooler for the Telborian than for her, given his limited attire. She’d already shed her cloak; she was warm enough with her tunic for the time being.

  She shifted her attention from the makeshift camp. The only sounds in the starlit darkness were crickets and swaying grass. It’d become a beautiful night. Had she been elsewhere she would have enjoyed it. Still, she found herself gazing up into the heavens. There was a first quarter moon tonight—which helped them remain undetected, but also made the stars all the brighter. She easily found the constellation of the Virgin, which was sitting a bit lower beneath the Dolphin swimming by—two signs that summer was just around the bend.

  Returning her focus to the maintenance of her bow, she caught the gleam of starlight on Dugan’s sword as it lay beside her. She’d taken both swords when he was knocked unconscious by her enchanted arrow. It had been enchanted with enough strength to knock out a large animal, allowing her to easily put the Telborian to sleep. That had been the easy part. Toting his unconscious frame through the wilderness had taken its toll, but eventually she’d found somewhere safe enough to rest for the night.

  Wait. One gladius?

  Alara went back to the weapon—the single weapon. She swept the area around her for the missing blade, but came up empty handed. She’d made sure she kept them close at hand and out of Dugan’s reach. And both were there when last she checked, so where was it? It couldn’t have just gotten up and walked off by itself. Alara got her answer when the edge of the blade pressed up against the front of her neck, the hand wielding it reaching around from behind.

  “I want answers,” Dugan whispered in her ear. Alara tensed.

  “It might be a bit hard to give them with a sword against my neck,” she said, feigning what confidence she could.

  “You seem the resourceful type,” Dugan growled.

  Alara swallowed hard, then tried to relax.

  “For starters, where are we?” The gladius’ razor-thin lip pressed more intimately against her neck.

  “The Grand Fields—the plains outside the Remolosin Woods. They flow all the way to the coast.”

  “How did I get here?”

  “I carried you.”

  He laughed with a mirth that was too dark for her liking. “You working with someone else?” She noticed Dugan making a rapid survey of the area.

  “There’s no one here but me.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Alara Airdes.”

  “A hunter
?”

  “No, I told you I’m not a bounty hunter. I was sent to find you and take you off Colloni.”

  “Why?”

  “We need your help.” She tried getting some more room to breathe, but Dugan’s other hand gripped her left shoulder, stopping the effort before it could begin.

  “We?” The blade came close to biting into the soft skin of her neck. “I thought you said you were alone?”

  “I am,” Alara rushed, “but I’m working for someone else. They’re the one who sent me.”

  “So who you working with?”

  “I’d rather not say at the moment, but I can say we’re on the same side.”

  Dugan’s chortle made clear Alara wasn’t connecting. “You probably haven’t heard of my people, but I’m a Patrious—another race of elves who live far to the west.” She then quickly added, “And we have little love for the Elyellium, let me assure you.”

  “Elves sent you to retrieve me from other elves?” Dugan wasn’t believing any of this. She’d been afraid he wouldn’t. She just hadn’t expected she’d have to bring him around with a sword at her neck.

  “Yes, from the Republic of Rexatoius—my homeland.” She measured her words.

  “Never heard of it.” Dugan drew the blade a little tighter, drawing a thin trickle of blood. “If you’re not a hunter, how did you know where to find me, or even when?”

  Alara grimaced under the pressure. “I wasn’t quite sure . . . I only had a vague location where you might be. I had to track you for a day before I found you. But I didn’t have to travel far before I heard the news of a large reward for an escaped gladiator who happened to kill the arena’s manager. It’s caused quite a stir and is calling down bounty hunters on you from all over Colloni.”