by Scott Baron
The king and queen enjoyed a more relaxed discussion of the marvels they had discovered since their arrival over dessert, followed by a small glass of fortified sweet wine.
The serving staff cleared the table, and Charlie and Leila retired to their chambers, her chambermaids trying to help her remove her attire.
“Ladies, really, I can do this. I’ve been dressing and undressing myself my whole life.”
A blush and look of shame flashed across both their faces.
“Not that I don’t truly appreciate all of your help,” she quickly added. “You’ve both been doing a fantastic job. Really, top-notch. Now please, go have some dinner and enjoy yourselves tonight. That’s an order,” she added with a wink.
The chambermaids’ smiles returned to their faces as they left their queen to her own devices. She was odd, and her refusal of their services was disconcerting, but she was a good woman and treated them well. As is the case among servants, word of her treatment spread, met with appreciative nods.
The thick door closed behind the pair as they left. Charlie padded over to it, locking it soundly behind them. He felt they were safe in the castle, but old habits die hard, and that meant King Charlie and Queen Leila would die hard as well. He walked across the chamber to the smaller door in the far wall.
“All right, then. Sleep well,” he said, then walked into the adjacent room for another night on the surprisingly comfortable couch. Within minutes, he was sound asleep, enjoying the sensation of flying above his kingdom. Whether it was all in his mind or was him tapping into Ara as she hunted was unsure. Whatever the case, it was comforting, and he had come to enjoy the frequent dreams.
Chapter Seven
In the dark surrounding the castle, the faintest of sounds of footfalls would occasionally present themselves to the most strained of ears. But no one was listening, and their passage went unnoted. Invisible, the Wampeh assassin snuck deeper into the woods, following an impossible route through crags, and boulders, skirting bogs and fallen trees, until, finally, he arrived at his destination.
The rocky face was sheer, the backside of a granite hill that had fallen away many millennia earlier. The resulting formation was a slope that dropped away to the jagged boulders below. But halfway up the near vertical face, a small cluster of trees hung firmly to the soil, growing strong in spite of their precarious home.
It was there that Bawb had chosen when he had given the lands surrounding the castle a thorough once over in the days following their arrival. One tree in particular had caught his eye, and since he began tending it, its bark had grown dense and healthy.
He slipped back the hood of his shimmer cloak, the magical camouflage making it appear as if just a head were floating in the air. It was such a familiar bit of magic for him that the use of it was second nature, pulling almost no power from the konus he wore on his wrist.
In times of the most dangerous infiltration, he would also use one of the more esoteric spells at his disposal. One that would hide his reflection, and even shadow, should he lack his shimmer cloak. But it was a power-hungry spell that would easily drain a lesser konus dry of its stored magic.
The Wampeh pulled a small flask from his cloak and set it aside on the nearby flat rock he used as a work surface. He then bent close to the tree, casting the slightest of illumination spells, far too faint to be seen unless you were right on top of it. His fingers ran along the almost invisible seam on the low branch.
If you didn’t know where to look, it would appear as any other. Only this had been his project. His secret experiment, spurred by one of Charlie’s seemingly random comments months prior.
Wood could not hold a magical charge in his galaxy. Everyone knew that, so no one even bothered to try. But the strange human from a distant land knew no such restrictions, and great innovations were often made by those simply unaware what they attempted was impossible.
He had taken his sharpest blade and carefully split the tapering end of the branch, gently prying it open until the heartwood showed. The gap was roughly a foot long, and into it he pressed a thin rod of magically-charged metal. It had been a konus days prior, but with the help of Ara’s magical flames, he had managed to forge the band into a rod without losing its magic-storing properties. The result was a foot-long, pencil-thin device.
Wrapped tightly around it was a single, powerful, strand of long, golden hair. A gift from Hunze when he confided his project to her. The immense power of her freely-given strand was super-charging the konus rod as it shared its energy.
He had then pressed the split wood tightly together around the rod, wrapping the protruding remaining length of the hair around the outside of the branch, allowing it full exposure to the planet’s nourishing yellow sun. With a final series of precise bindings to hold things in place, he set to work maintaining his experiment, returning to it every few days to tend to it.
Bawb was making a wand, growing the power directly into the wood, as Charlie had offhandedly suggested. The idea, though unheard of, was intriguing, and from what he could sense after several months of healing and growth, it had been a good one. The wood was sound and strong, reinforced with ample power, constantly upping its charge from the bit of exposed hair that still fed into the branch itself. The tree’s absorption of the planet’s rays also added to the effect in an unforeseen way.
But Bawb had taken to visiting at night, now that there was actual power being handled. Better extra safe than having curious eyes stumble upon his treasure.
The Wampeh gave the branch one more going over, and––once satisfied with its health––carefully unsealed the small flask he had put aside. With great care, he dripped the smallest amount of the iridescent waters contained within onto the healing split of the branch. The Ootaki hair glowed faintly when it contacted the water, channeling its healing power deep into the wood.
He then poured a small amount onto the roots of the tree, as he had done a few times prior. Healing and strengthening the entire organism, not just the appendage he had commandeered.
The waters were scarce, most of their hastily-filled containers having been lost during the battle at the Balamar wasteland before they fled and accidentally arrived on this strange planet. But even here, far from home, the powerful waters would harm Bawb just as easily as they would heal others. It was a rare weakness the Wampeh possessed, and every time he used a portion of their stash, he put himself at risk.
But the tree was healing nicely, and this would likely be the last time he would need to tap into the priceless water reserve. So little remained, he knew it was vital to save it in case a true healing emergency arose.
He held his hand over the damp wood, careful not to touch it with his bare skin. Combusting would not be a fun way to end the day.
“Yes,” he murmured, satisfied with the power he sensed being given off by the branch. “That’s coming along nicely.”
If Charlie was right, the magically-charged piece of tapered wood could be a fantastic amplifier of power. A directional conductor of magic the likes of which konus and slaap users had never seen. And all because it had been created with living wood, its powers imbued into every cell of the plant surrounding its magical core.
It was amazing no one had ever thought to try it before, but sometime it really did take outside eyes to see what was obvious to them but overlooked by all others.
Bawb silently cast a masking spell, hiding the tree’s blossoming power from any who might seek it out. He knew they were the only ones who might sense it, but nevertheless, he hadn’t lived as long as he had by not being overly cautious. He then slid the hood of his shimmer cloak over his head and vanished into the misty night air to silently began his long trek home.
Chapter Eight
A small cart rattled along the dark, rutted path, its wheels bumping and lurching with every rock and hole they encountered. The small pony pulling it moved on steady hooves, well-familiar with the road and its hazards. The cart itself was a light burden, carryi
ng a single load––a small goat, its foreleg splinted and bound.
A lone woman walked beside the pony, gently stroking its side as it labored. She was something of a local version of Leila––at least in her former life. An animal healer and woman of the land. Though a good decade older than the now-queen, she was still quite spry and healthy, even for the time and place.
While life on ancient Earth could be hard, if you had the good fortune to be well-fed––which she was, for the grateful locals paid her not only in coin but in food, as well––and avoided serious injury, you could live to a ripe old age.
Of course, that was decades away. She was in her late thirties, which was still her prime, so long as no malady befell her.
The pony whinnied and bucked at movement in the shadows.
“Come on, Toby, keep moving. We’re almost home. Gotta get this little one fed and tucked in with the others.”
The little goat had been attacked by a wolf, apparently. While its sibling wasn’t so fortunate, this little one had managed to escape with his life, having slid under a stump, where the farmer had found the bleating creature some hours later.
She knew it hadn’t been the queen’s massive beast that had caused the injury. She’d seen its handiwork before. It didn’t maim. It killed. And when it killed, it ate all but the bones––and sometimes those as well. No, this had been a run-of-the-mill wolf, and with any fortune, she’d have the youngster healed and back with the rest of his herd in no time. And Farmer Griswald would surely pay her a handsome bonus of potatoes and carrots for her troubles.
“We’ll make a nice soup,” she murmured to her jittery companion. “But don’t fret. I’ll save some carrots for you, my friend.”
Toby stopped abruptly, eyes wide with fear. A pair of dark figures stood in the middle of the track, blocking their way.
“Please step aside, if you would. I’ve got to get this injured little one back.”
More shapes materialized from the woods on either side, quietly making their way to the road. There were nine of them, and she was surrounded.
“I have no money. And this old pony won’t fetch any coin,” she said, attempting her most stoic voice.
The men were not impressed.
“That goat will make a nice supper.”
“Please, it’s just a little one. There’s hardly any meat on its bones.”
He scoffed. “We’ll take whatever we want,” the man who seemed to be their leader said. “And I see something else I think will suit us just fine,” he said, moving closer.
“Leave me be! Stay back!” she shouted, her voice echoing in the night.
Her hand reached under her pack where it sat on the cart, pulling a small knife. She brandished it at the bandits, swinging it side-to-side.
The men just laughed.
“Oh, lassie, you think that wee thing worries me?” the ruffian said, moving in quickly and grabbing her by the wrist.
He plucked the blade from her hand, looked at it a moment, then tossed it into the woods.
“Just a little thing like that?” he laughed, a wicked grin blossoming on his grimy face. “Well, I’ve got something bigger than that to pierce you with. And I think you––“
That was the last he said. The small knife protruding from his forehead where it had pierced the bone and sunk deep into his skull seemed to have interrupted his train of thought.
Before the man staggered back a pace and fell into a heap, she could have sworn that was her knife. But that was impossible, it had been thrown into the darkness.
And from that darkness a new threat emerged. Appearing seemingly out of nowhere amidst the bandits, a man in dark attire now stood. He threw aside his cloak, freeing him for ease of movement, then drew a faintly-glowing blade from his waist.
“The Ghost!” one of the bandits gasped before his head was nearly separated from his body in a single stroke.
Rumor had been floating of a strange apparition in the night. One that wandered the lands, protecting the people of the realm, dispatching those who would cause them harm. Of course, the group of roving bandits had taken it as just another fairy tale told to scare away people of their ilk. An apparition disposing of entire bands of dangerous men, then disappearing without a trace? Impossible.
The impossible was rapidly dismantling the incredulous ruffians with deadly efficiency, moving in ways no human could possibly move.
They were right, in a manner of speaking. Their attacker was, indeed, not human, and perhaps one might even have gotten the briefest of glimpses of the pale hunter’s pointed canine teeth poking from between his lips as he smiled with deadly pleasure.
Any close enough to witness that, however, would join their departed friends straightaway.
Like a whirling dervish of death and destruction, the apparition flew through the men, but did so without making a sound. The only noise that reached the night air was that of dying gasps and the sound of bodies hitting the soil.
The Ghost, as locals had taken to calling him, stood among the dead, surveying his handiwork, then wiped his enchanted weapon on a dead man’s tunic before returning it to its sheath. With the blade’s glow concealed, the road was once more quite dark but for the moonlight.
The woman stood stock-still, not daring to so much as breathe as she watched the apparition quickly remove all valuables from the men, then throw their bodies to the side of the road with such ease she knew he could not possibly be human. Finally, he pried the small blade from the dead bandit’s forehead, wiped it clean, and placed it in the woman’s the small cart along with the rest of the seized booty.
There were assorted deadly implements, all of which could be sold or traded, which she was surprised to be given. Then again, from what she’d seen, if he’d wanted her dead, no amount of weapons would keep her from him. But then he truly surprised her, tossing several small pouches of coin he had taken from the fallen men into the cart as well.
“I don’t understand,” she blurted. “Are you giving this to me?”
The shadowy figure merely gave a little nod of the head and a salute farewell, then pulled his cloak tight and literally vanished right in front of her, melting away into the night.
Chapter Nine
It wasn’t sadism. At least not the traditional variety.
Charlie had made good on his promise, and early the next morning he joined the men in the training courtyard. Most were not thrilled to be required to rise quite so early, nor were they happy that their first order of business was not going to be strapping on light armor and swinging swords, but rather going for a run in the hills around the castle.
Mind you, the hills were just that. Hills. Not peaks, mountains, or any other sort of brutal, towering land mass. But for soldiers accustomed to getting their cardio from hefting steel rather than moving their legs, it was enough to make their lungs burn and their limbs feel like wet noodles.
In assessing the men, Charlie had realized that before he could even begin to get into some of Ser Baruud’s techniques, he would first need to implement some of his own torture from his days in basic training.
First, he put them through a basic warm up routine, including pushups, sit ups, and jumping jacks––which the men had never seen before, and found ridiculous, that is, until they became winded after less than a minute.
With the group sweating and gasping for breath so soon, Charlie decided to skip the rest of the planned warmup, opting instead to take them out to run that first mile, but slowly so as to help them limber up and avoid injury.
Grumbles from the men reached his ears. Things along the lines of why was he making them do all of this? Isn’t it useless when they need to train in fighting, not child’s play? And Charlie’s favorite, ‘It’s easy to come up with all of these torturous things when you’re sipping wine on a couch.’”
Charlie walked the ranks, surveying the men. They seemed of decent fitness––Captain Sheeran had made sure of that––but they just needed a little tune-up
to reach their next level of potential. And what better way than with some motivation.
He took off his regal robe––which he hated wearing, anyway––and stripped to his tunic and trousers. Dressed like the others, albeit in cleaner clothing, Charlie began a quick warmup, bouncing on his feet and loosening up.
“Okay, you lot. We’re going for a little run,” he said, sliding a water skin over his shoulder. “I want each of you to take water with you, and shed any extra gear. Believe me, you’ll thank me later.”
The men looked amongst themselves with confusion. Was the king going to train with them?
Captain Sheeran had a pained look in his eyes. “Sire, may I speak with you a moment?”
“Of course,” Charlie said, stepping out of the men’s earshot.
“Sire, are you certain you wish to do this? My men are perfectly capable of carrying out your directives without your needing to join them.”
“Sheeran, there was an old saying where I came from. ‘Leadership requires just two words. Follow me.’ I won’t ask the men to do anything I wouldn’t be willing to do myself.”
A curious look passed across the captain’s face. “But if you take the men without arms, you will be at risk. At least allow a few their weapons.”
Charlie thought on it a moment. “I’ll tell you what. That’s actually a very good idea.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
“So, what we’ll do is this. Have however many men you feel are needed accompany us on horseback. They can bring extra water and perhaps some food as well, in case anyone gets low blood sugar while we’re at it.”
“You wish for blood-soaked sugar, Sire?”
“What? Oh, no, no. Nothing like that. What I mean is, pack some fruits and dried meats as well. Perhaps a few extra swords, too. That way, should we need them, the men will have access to additional arms. Would that put your mind at ease?”