Before long, the pair reached the edge of the town and the long road that led off through the valley. Rory dug his heels into Storm's flanks and began to race down the road with Swiftstalker right alongside him. It was exhilarating. Storm ran like the wind. When they reached a bend in the road, it was bordered by a rail fence. Rory felt the horse bunch his muscles and then Storm leapt over the fence into the field beyond without breaking stride. Rory pulled back on the reins and Storm immediately slowed to a canter.
As Swiftstalker brought his horse alongside Storm, he could see a wide grin on Rory's face.
"That was as close to flying as I think you can come without leaving the ground!” Rory exclaimed. “This horse is magnificent!"
"I think you were flying for a few moments. Your horse cleared that fence by several feet.” Swiftstalker looked around. “I don't think I have ever been in this part of the valley before. Want to explore a bit before we head back?"
"Great idea. I guess we should head back to the road,” Rory said.
"It would be best. Let's use the gate this time, shall we?"
* * * *
The road took a turn into a wooded stretch a short time later. The dense trees on either side were so close together that neither Rory nor Swiftstalker could see very far back into the woods.
"There is something about this I don't like,” Swiftstalker said. “Be wary and ready for anything."
They hadn't ridden very much farther when a ragtag group of men stepped out of the trees, brandishing a mismatched collection of weapons ranging from old swords to staves. “Halt!” cried one of them.
Swiftstalker whispered, “There are more behind us. When it starts, ride straight at the group in front and pull up on your reins. Let Storm do some of the work but defend yourself at all costs."
Swiftstalker called out, “Who are you and why do you block the duke's road?"
"We are but simple men in search of wealth. Judging from your fine clothes and horses, you must have more than your share,” the leader said. “Give us your horses, weapons, and other possessions and we might let you live."
An arrow suddenly skewered the man's throat. Rory slammed his heels into Storm's flanks and the horse raced forward and then reared, slashing downward with his front hooves, killing several of the bandits. Rory whipped his sword from the sheath on his back. Then he engaged the only bandit armed with a sword. That strange sense of time shift occurred and the bandits all began to move in slow motion. Rory's sword cleaved through the bandit's arm just above the wrist, severing the hand holding his weapon. His backswing passed through one of the staves, shattering the wooden staff into kindling. Those bandits remaining in front of him began to run back into the trees. Rory spun his horse to see what was happening to Swiftstalker.
Swiftstalker sat calmly on his horse with six more dead bandits around him. Most had been slain using the bow, but one had clearly been killed by a sword that had opened the man's throat.
"Well, that was exciting! Did you leave any alive?” Swiftstalker asked as he moved next to Rory.
They looked over the fallen bandits and found the one who had lost his hand was still alive. Swiftstalker slid from his horse and bound the wound tightly to stem the flow of blood. He then trussed the man's arms tightly behind him and looped a noose of rope around the man's neck, which he then tied to his saddle.
"You're going to make him walk?” Rory asked.
"I'm certainly not going to share my horse with him! He can walk or be dragged; it matters not one bit to me. He tried to kill you, Rory. Now is not the time to be sympathetic because he's wounded."
Rory thought about that for a moment and decided Swiftstalker was right. “Did you know you have three arrows stuck in your back?"
"Pull them out, would you? I couldn't reach those."
As he removed the arrows from the fabric of Swiftstalker's heavy doublet, Rory realized the elven lord was wearing a light coat of mail under his clothes. “I wondered why there was no blood. So what made you wear this light mail today?"
"Today? I wear it every day, Rory. The only time a Lord of the Forest is out of his mail is when he is deep in the safety of our own elven city in the Great Forest.” Swiftstalker grinned as he added, “There are other times when we take it off, too. Most ladies detest the feel of mail on their skin.” When Rory's face turned red in embarrassment, Swiftstalker laughed loudly and then began the long slow ride back to Westfell, their prisoner staggering along behind them.
* * * *
General Gustav was not amused. The Heir of Westfell had been attacked by bandits not five miles from the keep itself. Fortunately, they had brought back a prisoner so he could discover who was really behind this attack, because he did not believe for one minute there were real bandits in Westfell. The only bright spot in the whole affair had been Swiftstalker's glowing report of the heir's actions when they were attacked. There had been no hesitation that might have gotten him killed; the boy had charged straight at them and let the horse take care of some of the men while he attacked the others.
The mounted patrol the general had sent out had retrieved the bodies of the other bandits, including their so-called leader. No one from the village had ever seen any of the men before. The weapons they had carried were also collected when found; most had been of very poor quality, although the leader had carried a dagger of Outlander manufacture. Could these so-called bandits have been foreign mercenaries bent on disrupting Westfell?
The keep guards had taken the prisoner to the dungeon located beneath the guard barracks. A large metal collar had been fastened around the man's neck and was attached by a short length of chain to the wall of his cell. Amenities were few; a pile of straw to lie in and a honey bucket for bodily functions. Twice a day, the man was brought a small portion of food and some water. His amputation had been cauterized and bandaged, the white linen stark against his otherwise filthy appearance.
The general knew his great size and menacing appearance would cow the bravest man. Clad in his normal battle mail, greaves, bracers and gauntlets, he stepped through the cell doorway like a living mountain. He tossed his big two-handed sword to the guard outside the cell, saying, “Take care of this. I won't need it to deal with this scum."
The general reached down one mailed fist and grabbed the front of the prisoner's tunic. He lifted the prisoner with one hand until the man's feet were no longer touching the ground and the short chain was pulling his head backward as it stretched down behind him. “You are going to tell me everything I want to know. You can tell me freely or we can do this the hard way, but you will tell me in the end. The only real issue now is how much pain you will suffer before you do."
The man started blubbering, “I didn't do anything..."
The general drove his other mailed fist into the man's ribs. “You took up arms against the Heir of Westfell. If you are from this duchy, which I doubt, then you are guilty of treason against your liege lord. But you really aren't from here, are you?"
The man's trapped expression spoke volumes. If he said he was from Westfell, he was guilty of treason. If he said he was from another duchy, then he was a bandit operating without that duchy's knowledge, or guilty of an act of war if operating under orders. If he was from outside Aluria itself...
"Where are you from?” the general asked quietly.
"I live in the woods. I was forced..."
General Gustav's fist struck again. “That's a lie. Where are you from?"
"I told you. I live in the woods..."
The general threw the man down to the ground. “You know, it was only a few weeks ago that the king himself made me execute a man, but only after I had removed his hands, his tongue, and his genitals. I didn't like doing it but it was his will, so I obeyed. I won't have any problems making you talk. My duty is to protect Westfell by whatever means necessary.” He drew his razor-sharp dagger. “I will start with your toes and then your fingers. If you haven't told me everything I want to know by then, I will take
your testicles and penis. After that, it will be your eyes. Then I will start to flay the skin from your body the way you remove an apple's skin in one long strip. Between each step, I will douse you with brine to sharpen your senses.
"Now, everyone knows the Duke of Westfell does not believe in torture, and that's true enough. The important thing for you to remember is that I am not the Duke of Westfell! I have no problem torturing you if it helps me protect this duchy. So what's it going to be?” The general placed the edge of his dagger against the man's left little toe.
* * * *
"The group was not from here, Your Grace. Most of them were just mercenaries from all over hired by their leader, the one with the arrow in his throat. He was not from Aluria, but where he was from was not known by the prisoner,” General Gustav reported. “I have the location of their camp and I will be leading a patrol of my best men to deal with them later tonight after they have had a chance to drink too much wine in celebrating their escape from the heir and the elf."
"Did you torture the man to extract this information, General?” Duke Richard asked, quietly.
"No, Your Grace. I merely talked with him about what would happen if he failed to answer my questions.” General Gustav grinned. “It is amazing what a convincing fellow I can be when I put my mind to it."
Swiftstalker laughed. “I would agree that describing how you will peel off his skin while you fondle your dagger with a maniacal gleam in your eye is a fairly convincing technique, Gustav."
"Did you really say that?” Rory asked.
"Amongst other things, yes.” General Gustav grinned. “I can't help it if the man believed I would actually do those terrible things."
"I am sure he believed each and every word,” Duke Richard said, “because there is no doubt in my mind you would do it if you felt it was necessary.” The duke shook his head. “Very well, take your troops and clean out that nest of vermin. I have no interest in collecting any more prisoners, so leave them where they fall. Before you leave, hang the one we do hold as an example for those who would raise a sword to the heir."
The general bowed. “As you command, Your Grace."
The duke shook his head and laughed. “You don't fool me, Gustav. You'd have done it all whether I told you to or not since it is the only way to protect the duchy."
"Guilty as charged, Your Grace. Still, I prefer the illusion that I follow your will in all things,” General Gustav said. “With your permission, I have some details to attend to before we attack the camp."
* * * *
The army of the duchy was known far and wide as “The Wolves of Westfell” for good reason. Like wolves, they fought as a group and were absolutely merciless in battle. They encircled the bandit camp silently, taking out the sentries with a dagger across the throat and a hand across their mouth to prevent any outcry. They fell on the sleeping drunken bandits, two men to a bandit, and slew them without warning with no quarter given. After the massacre, the soldiers sorted through the belongings of the dead, separating out what the bandits had stolen from the people they had waylaid along the road. Afterwards, they dragged the bodies of the dead to a pit near the campsite the bandits had been using to dispose of the remains of those they had killed and dumped them atop the bodies of their victims. They filled in the pit, gathered everything into the wagons at the campsite, and took it all back to Westfell Keep, along with the horses they had found.
* * * *
"It appears these bandits had been operating for about a month, Your Grace. Based on what we found, it seems they had ambushed several small groups. We may never know exactly who those victims were but we have recovered whatever remained and my troops are checking with the villagers to see if anyone recognizes any of the items recovered,” General Gustav reported the next morning.
"Were any of your men injured?"
"No, Your Grace. We took them completely by surprise. None of them ever had a chance to raise a weapon against us,” General Gustav replied. “It took longer to clean up the mess than the actual fighting."
"Very well. Please pass my appreciation on to your men, General.” The duke sighed wearily. “Winter will be upon us soon, and travelers will be infrequent. Still, I would like your men to patrol the roads more closely for a while."
"I have already given those instructions, Your Grace. Dispatch riders went out to all the garrisons yesterday afternoon."
Chapter 8
The first major snowstorm of the season fell on the first day of the Winter Festival. The previous five days had been spent in preparing for the festival: laying in the necessary game, collecting the massive amounts of firewood needed for the keep and the village, and decorating with sprigs of holly and pine boughs. Warm fires burned in every room of the keep, the seasoned oak logs stacked nearby each hearth to replenish them whenever they burned low. Torches lit the dark hallways, for the sun set early these days and the heavy cloud cover diminished even that feeble light.
The fires and torches also lessened the bitter cold. The wind howled across the battlements, driving waves of snow into drifts in the sheltered parts of the keep while scouring exposed places bare. Those who, because of duty or necessity, had to go outside, did so bundled in heavy layers of thick woolen cloaks and furs. Indoors, people made due with heavy woolen hose, thick undertunics, quilted doublets, and fur-lined boots. None strayed far from the hearths if they could help it.
The only exceptions were those who worked in the kitchens. The huge brick ovens and roasting pits were in constant operation and the radiated heat kept the kitchen area quite comfortable to those who toiled at preparing the massive amounts of food that would be consumed at the evening's feast. Those who felt too warm had merely to step outside to retrieve another load of firewood to gain an appreciation for the luxury of warmth on this bitter night.
Rory had gained Swiftstalker's assistance in procuring his winter gift for Duke Richard. The duke had given Rory everything in the past year, so he wanted this gift to be something truly worthy of the love he felt for his grandfather. Without anyone realizing he was gone, Swiftstalker had slipped out of the keep a week before and taken Rory's request deep into the heart of the Great Forest, returning late in the night before the snow had started to fall. He laid the gift, wrapped in soft chamois and tied with a scarlet ribbon he had earned helping one of the town families haul in their winter wood supply, at his grandfather's place at the table.
A few minutes later, Duke Richard came into the room. After bidding Swiftstalker a festive morning, he walked over to Rory. He threw his arms around his grandson in a bear hug and said, “Festive greetings to you, lad."
"And to you as well, Grandfather. We seem to be in for a big storm."
"Yes, we are,” Duke Richard said. “I expect this storm will rage for several days. In weather like this, we have to remember to rotate the guards every half an hour. Of course, Gustav will already have thought of that and he will give me that small smile when he thinks I am telling him the obvious.” Spotting the package, he said, “What is this?"
"Just a small token of my respect and love, Grandfather."
Ceremoniously, Duke Richard untied the ribbon and unwrapped the wrapper, revealing a long wooden box. The top was carved with the snarling wolf's head crest of Westfell with chips of garnet for the eyes. The duke ran his fingertips across the box in admiration of its craftsmanship. Each joint was perfect with matched grains on all sides. He slowly opened the box to reveal its contents. On a bed of dark green velvet lay a long dagger. Incised into the blade were elven runes of power, its subtle enchantment visible to those whose eyes could see them. The pommel was a snarling wolf's head.
"This is magnificent. How did you ever manage to get this? I can see it is elven made."
"I drew up the design for the knife and the box. Swiftstalker carried them to the Great Forest and brought them back last night."
"I cannot thank you both enough,” Duke Richard said, his voice choked with emotion.
Swiftstalker said, “Prince Brightblade bid me to say this dagger is the fitting gift for the Duke of Westfell. He asked that you consider this enchanted dagger as part of the official regalia for the duchy, much as the sword Wolf Fang should likewise become an eventual part of it as well."
Duke Richard looked once more at the beautiful dagger and said, “Westfell is proud to accept this dagger as an official part of the Westfell regalia in honor of the pact between our peoples. Please convey that to the prince when you next see him.” Turning to Rory, he said, “On a personal level, I thank you for such a thoughtful and honored gift. Now, it is my turn.” He clapped his hands twice, loudly.
The doors to the dining room opened and two guards came in bearing large wrapped packages, one for Rory and the other for Swiftstalker. “Well, don't stand on ceremony! Open them!” the duke commanded.
Simultaneously, the two tore away the wrappings to reveal a pair of cloaks. When the two shook them out, they realized the cloaks were made from the skins of several large dire wolves. The garments were thick and each had a hood that would cover the wearer's head to shelter it from even the bitterest wind and weather. The pelts were mainly white with streaks of grey and black, trimmed with the bushy tails around the hood. Each cloak was lined in fleece and dyed a rich dark green to signify the colors of Westfell livery.
"I knew you both would need something to wear in the harsh winter weather on your trip to the Great Forest. I arranged with Duke Armand to get a few wolf pelts and he sent these from the great dire wolves of the Kendrahl mountains. The linings were made by several women from the village as their gift to you both. The wool has been treated to be water resistant, so it will help keep you dry as well as warm.” The duke smiled at their obvious happiness with their gifts.
When Mistress Margaret came in to oversee the breakfast service, she surreptitiously ran her hand over the soft pelts as she passed by, a fleeting expression of pleasure crossing her face. As she reached the head of the table, she caught sight of the dagger. “Your Grace, that is a beautiful dagger. Why does the blade have that soft glow?"
The Heir Of Westfall [The Alurian Chronicles Book 1] Page 9