The Sword of Darrow

by Hal Malchow

  • 40 •

  Zindown’s Plan

  Tell me, oh great and mighty Beltar, can you tell me . . .”

  Beltar, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together, waited as the king’s words poured forth.

  “Tell me, how can a great military genius lose in battle to an eighteen-year-old cripple barely the size of a wolfhound?”

  The king stood, hands on hips, eyes burning so bright they might set Beltar afire.

  “I wasn’t there,” Beltar replied, looking away from the king.

  “And why did we send five hundred to face an army almost twice our size?”

  “No one knew he had swords,” replied Beltar, ignoring the king’s faulty math.

  Dark green splotches rising from his neck, the king turned to Bekkendoth.

  “A pipsqueak, one-legged boy from Wail! And where is this Wail anyway?”

  “To the south in the mountains below the Pfimincil Forest,” Bekkendoth replied, wondering just why no one remembered that he was the one who said more soldiers were needed. “It’s Ael, Your Majesty, not Wail.”

  The king sank into a chair, his chest heaving. When calm returned and his eyes had faded to gray, Beltar spoke.

  “Your Majesty, we are indeed facing a formidable foe. Mistakes have been made. But can we now move forward to crush this revolt and give this peasant just what he deserves?”

  The king rose again and walked to the window. His back was wet with sweat. He stood at the window for a long time. Beneath his feet two small puddles formed. When he finally spoke, his words came in a whisper almost too faint to hear.

  “Yes, the plan. Tell me the plan.”

  Beltar unfurled a roll of paper and spread it across the table. His long finger stabbed a place on the map.

  “Here is Darrow, still at Kelsner’s Plain. His force is growing. He now has at least a thousand and maybe fifteen hundred men. He is a shrewd opponent. That I will admit. Now he has blacksmiths all across the kingdom working overtime to produce swords.”

  “We arrested three of them yesterday—in Blumenbruch,” Bekkendoth added.

  The king looked back, wiping his forehead with his sleeve.

  “His army is growing, but they have not faced cavalry. They remain without armor. We can move in at night and surround their camp with locked shields. Our archers will wake them with a hail of arrows. When we follow with the cavalry, they will have no chance.”

  The king looked back at Beltar. “Here is what I want. I want a guarantee. Can you guarantee victory?”

  Before Beltar could answer, Zindown interrupted.

  “I can give you a guarantee. I guarantee that this plan will fail.”

  King Malmut’s body shook with anger.

  “I am sorry to deliver this news, but I have been to the other side.”

  Beltar rolled his eyes and glared through the window.

  “First,” Zindown began, “you must know that Princess Babette is alive.”

  “Alive!” screamed the king. “Then kill her!”

  “It is not an easy task. She has magic of her own. But we cannot kill her now. I need her for my plan.

  “Second, you must understand we cannot win in open battle. Darrow’s army is fifteen hundred strong but growing every day. By the time Beltar attacks, Darrow will have two, maybe three thousand or more.

  “But it is not numbers that make them strong. These soldiers know little of battle but are driven with a passion and belief. For this Darrow, this runt as you call him, they will fight like madmen. Beltar can surround them. But they will break his wall on every side.”

  Beltar looked up, his face whitening in rage. The king surged from his chair.

  “Well, listen, my world-famous magician. Will you tell me just one thing? Why is this Darrow boy not dead? Just one little murder, is that too much to ask?”

  “Your Majesty, would you have me hurl spells at every criminal? Murder by the hand of the wizard is reserved for only the most personal vengeance. But why concern yourself with who does the deed? Murder is exactly what I have in mind.

  “To kill Darrow, to destroy his army and crush this rebellion, there is really only one course of action.”

  “And what is that?” Beltar shot back.

  Zindown smiled, pausing for effect.

  “Surrender.”

  Beltar rose from his chair, glaring at the wizard. The king looked confused.

  “Not a real surrender. I mean a trick.”

  Beltar returned to his seat. Remembering his victory at Tolenbettle, a smile slowly crossed his face.

  “If we surrender, we can lure Darrow away from his army and when we do we will slay him with a sword. With Darrow dead, we can attack with our full force—all in a great surprise. Without their great leader, these peasants will flee for their lives, scattering all across the plain. Cut off the head, the beast will die.”

  The king liked this image but was still puzzled.

  “Who could slay him? Who is good enough to defeat Darrow?”

  “I think Beltar would do just fine.” Zindown gestured Beltar’s way. “I think he is brave enough for this task.”

  Beltar straightened to speak, but the king interrupted.

  “This Darrow—his swordsmanship is legendary.”

  Zindown lifted his chin and touched together the fingers on both hands.

  “And a legend is all that it is, Your Highness. Darrow is a pathetic weakling. He is lame and small and can hardly lift an ordinary weapon.”

  “So how has he slain scores of my finest swordsmen?” Beltar scoffed.

  “Because he carries a magical sword.” He looked straight into Beltar’s eyes. “But when you face him alone, his sword will be gone.”

  For a long time, the room was silent as the monarch and his general contemplated Zindown’s strange plan. Beltar was the first to speak.

  “I understand your plan. If their army is rejoicing, we can strike at the most unexpected time. Perhaps Darrow cannot fight without his sword. But how will you lure him from his army? This is the part I don’t understand.”

  Now, Zindown was positively gleeful. He had waited the entire conversation to deliver his line.

  “Yes, my good general, that is indeed the critical part. And for this challenge, I plan to employ a tactic that in my lifetime of wizardry I have seldom used.”

  Beltar and the king leaned forward in their chairs, eager to hear.

  “To lure Darrow from his army, I plan to tell him the truth.”

  And with a great howl of laughter, Zindown exited the room.

  • 41 •

  Surrender

  At the edge of Kelsner’s Plain stood a sentry. In the distance, he could see a small cloud. “Perhaps a horseman,” he thought. There were still few horses in camp and this volunteer would be welcome.

  As the rider approached, the sentry could see a white flag of sorts waving above the horse. The rider wore garments of black and green. “A messenger from the goblins,” he thought and hurried into town to notify Darrow.

  In the streets, word traveled fast, and men and women gathered to see what might come.

  The white flag high in the air, the rider galloped into the street and brought his horse to a stop. A soldier took the bridle and led him to the house where Darrow slept. Behind him, a crowd gathered to see and hear what he might say.

  Darrow emerged from the house, limping as usual. The goblin looked down at this small figure and grimaced, unwilling to believe his kingdom had been humbled by so meager a foe. When he had dismounted, he stood before Darrow, not looking in his face.

  “I travel under a flag of truce. I carry a message from His Royal Highness King Malmut of Globenwald.”

  Necks stretched and heads bobbed, straining to get a view and hear each word. Darrow signaled silence. He accepted the scroll, broke its wax seal, and read the contents aloud.

  To Darrow of Ael, Great General of the Army of Sonnencrest:

  On behalf of the great nation of Globenwald,
I extend to you our surrender.

  At these words, a great murmur moved through the crowd and a few soldiers launched a cheer. But Darrow raised his hand for silence. When the crowd quieted, he continued.

  You have handed our nation a terrible defeat. Too many sons of both Globenwald and Sonnencrest have lost their lives. Your army grows with each passing day.

  So, in exchange for safe passage from your kingdom, we agree to remove all troops from Sonnencrest and will begin our departure today.

  King Malmut II

  When Darrow spoke the king’s name, there was not a whisper in the air, as if more words must surely follow, telling them that this strange news could not really be true. But a few voices began to cheer and those cheers became a thunderous roar. Some ran from the scene to spread the news. Others hugged one another and tears flowed down many cheeks. Hands reached toward Darrow, for no words could be heard and touch was the only way to convey, not just congratulations, but their deep and lasting gratitude for the mighty deed he had achieved.

  When he could again be heard, the messenger pulled out a sword and handed it to Darrow.

  “This is the sword of Beltar,” he said. “The victory is yours.”

  Darrow himself stood silent, his expression dazed, struggling to make sense of this message. Hands reached beneath his legs and suddenly he was lifted in the air and onto the shoulders of his men. Now people poured into the streets. Carried above the crowd, Darrow was surrounded by a cauldron of joy, teeming with bodies bouncing with energy beyond their ability to contain. Through the streets he flowed, his presence drawing the crowd to its hero like a whirlpool flowing through a choppy sea.

  When they reached the town hall, he gave a beautiful speech thanking the families of Kelsner’s Plain who donated cooking oil and glassworks and even manned the battlefield. He spoke of the kingdom to come and how freedom would reign and that the tables of Sonnencrest would once again be filled with milk, wheat bread, and grapes from their fields.

  “All hail, King Darrow!” a voice shouted. A thousand voices joined this chant.

  But Darrow’s mind was elsewhere. When he had finished, he turned to Mempo, his expression grave, and snapped, “Get me back to the house.”

  At the house, Darrow called for his circle, but only Scodo, Timwee, and Mempo could be found.

  “Brother, why so gloomy?” Mempo asked. “A happier day is hard to imagine.”

  “Sit. I want to talk.”

  The four sat facing one another.

  Scodo spoke first.

  “It is a trick. I cannot prove it, but I believe it beyond any truth I know. Why would they leave Sonnencrest after one small battle? Are they cowards? Do they care for our well-being? Give me one single reason why they would do such a thing.”

  “They are afraid of you,” Mempo responded, his back straight and his head held high.

  “Perhaps it is a ploy,” offered Timwee, “but what are we to do? Messengers are running to every corner of the kingdom. Do we tell our soldiers that our victory is not real? Do you tell this mob that war continues? They promised to leave. Let’s see if they do. In the meantime, we remain on alert.”

  Darrow looked at each of the men, weighing their advice. “It is a trick. This is what I believe and we should tell the people the truth.”

  “We don’t know the truth,” Mempo shot back.

  “They are setting a trap,” Darrow snapped. “When we march to Blumenbruch, drunk with our victory, their entire army will be waiting.”

  Timwee repeated his advice. “Maybe we don’t march to the capital. Maybe we wait here, on alert, to see if they really leave. In three days, we will have a thousand more.”

  Darrow nodded. “Three days. That is what we will give them. If they remain in Sonnencrest, we will march to Blumenbruch and give them a farewell they won’t forget.”

  The afternoon sun was falling in the sky and shadows of the crowd fell through the curtains and into the room. At the door stood a sentry. Inside, Darrow, Timwee, Hugga Hugga, and Scodo stood hunched over a map.

  There was a knock on the door.

  Darrow turned, his face strained and unhappy, but he remembered the sentry.

  “Who is it?”

  The door opened. A face appeared in the crack.

  “A messenger. I asked him who it was from, but he won’t say.”

  “Send him away,” said Darrow, but Scodo went to the door. The messenger stood tall, almost the height of the door, and he was dressed in fine clothes. He did not speak.

  “Who sends a message to Darrow?”

  “I cannot say,” replied the messenger, still at attention. “But he knows the sender well.”

  As Scodo turned to go back inside, he glanced at the envelope. On it was a small picture of a yellow bird.

  “Let this man inside.”

  Darrow looked up from the map, emitting a long sigh.

  “You may want to read this one,” said Scodo.

  Darrow turned and snatched the envelope from the messenger. As he read, his mouth opened and his jaw slowly dropped.

  My dear nephew,

  You have made me the proudest uncle in all Sonnencrest. From your walk through the forest when the skriabeasts brought you to my home to your wonderful impersonation of a gong farmer at the Kirstinnex prison, I saw qualities of courage and wisdom that I knew would make you succeed.

  But now, as you stand at the edge of our kingdom’s greatest victory, there is something you should know. Princess Babette is alive and is ready to take the crown. Before proceeding to Blumenbruch, it is important that you meet with her to discuss the kingdom, its future, and the establishment of government when the goblins are gone.

  This messenger will take you to a secret place barely a day’s walk from Kelsner’s Plain. No one must accompany you on your journey for there is a great ransom on the head of the princess—so great that even one of our own might strike her dead. Please trust me in this matter. As always, I am forever at your service.

  Asterux

  All waited for the message, disappointed that Darrow had not read it aloud. When he was finished, he looked up and spoke.

  “Princess Babette is alive.”

  “Who is Princess Babette?” Mempo asked.

  “Some say she escaped from the palace the night Sonnencrest fell. She is the one survivor of the royal family.”

  Timwee objected. “These are legends. Any imposter could make this claim. She was only eight years old.”

  “It is true. I know her.”

  All eyes turned to Scodo.

  “How could you keep this secret from us?” Mempo shouted.

  Darrow lifted his hand. “Do not doubt this message. It is from my uncle. It says things that only my uncle would know. I will leave to meet the princess tomorrow morning.”

  “I will join you,” offered Scodo. “We will bring our twenty best men for protection.”

  “I must do this alone.”

  “Don’t even think about that,” said Timwee. “What if this is just another trick? If they kill you, then where would we be?”

  “Without you, Brother, we will all be dead,” Mempo concluded.

  Darrow looked back at his friends, angry that they would doubt his judgment. Almost shouting, he said, “This message is no trick.”

  Scodo and Timwee exchanged looks of alarm. But there was no chance to speak. Darrow spoke so firmly, no voice would rise in response.

  “Tomorrow I leave alone.”

  A low wind rose across the plain and stalks of high grass bowed their heads and shivered before its presence. Darrow leaned forward in his saddle. He was not used to a horse and the long ride made his body ache. All day, the messenger had spoken hardly a word.

  They reached the house and dismounted, tying their horses to a carriage. It was a fine carriage, fit for a princess, thought Darrow, but he noticed an emblem on the door—a bat spider painted in shining green.

  The messenger spoke.

  “You are about to
meet a princess. You cannot do so dressed as you are.”

  Darrow protested that he had no other clothes. But the messenger reached into the carriage and withdrew a fine robe.

  Darrow knew nothing of royalty or its customs. So, not wishing to offend, he accepted the offer. The robe was too long for Darrow. Its hem dragged the ground and it had no place for a sword. So the messenger also pulled out a fine belt with engraved leather and metal trim.

  “Here, you can use this to hold your sword.”

  Darrow took the belt. It was heavy, very heavy, in his hands.

  The messenger explained that the craftsmen had buried a metal inside the leather so that it would not be possible to cut the sword from his side. While he buckled the new belt, he handed the messenger his sword to hold.

  The messenger marveled at Darrow’s blade.

  “This is as fine a sword as I have seen. Do you mind if I examine it?”

  “Not at all.”

  The messenger turned his back and faced the carriage. He lifted the sword lying across his palms.

  “It is so light. It must be terribly fast.”

  “Indeed.”

  The messenger opened a compartment on the wagon. There were several swords inside. He lifted one, placing Darrow’s sword inside.

  Holding his own sword in both hands, he said, “Even my lightest sword is no match for your blade.” Then he reached in the compartment and placed Darrow’s sword in the scabbard on his new belt.

  “Wait here,” he said. “I will inform the princess that you are ready.”

  Darrow paced nervously in the yard. His new belt felt heavy. From the house came not the slightest sound.

  The door opened.

  What Darrow saw made him gasp.

  Standing before him was no messenger and certainly no princess. Before him stood a goblin, tall and broad-shouldered. His hand gripped a weapon, the blade almost as tall as Darrow himself, curved upward and no thicker than a moonflower vine.

  “So you are the boy wonder, Darrow.”