“Don’t cry,” Katrina said. “I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” That only made Magda cry harder. Craicwyth came around and wrapped his wife in a bear hug.
Dagorat’s stomach rumbled. Time to eat.
***
Cyril wolfed down his second bowl of soup. “Much tastier than I thought possible,” he said to Liberon. “Don’t tell Magda I said that.” A wooden spoon tapped his shoulder.
“So glad you’re enjoying my ‘common slop,’” Magda said. Liberon chuckled, and she bounced away before Cyril could muster a response.
The leader of the troubadours downed a mug of ale in huge gulps and wiped the froth from his lips. “Now I’m ready.” He plucked a single note from his lute, then strummed twice across the strings. The guests cheered and tapped their feet, recognizing the opening bars from “When Lovers Meet.” A woman from the group joined the leader in a duet for the first verse, and the whole crowd joined in:
I found my one true love
Upon a summer’s day
A bolt from skies above
It happened just this way
Now the song alternated, starting with the men.
As I strolled into the wood
A bird did sing his song
And as I dropped my hood
It hit me like a gong
The men stopped, and the women picked up the tune.
I was high up in a tree
Picking fruit for pie
I stopped as I did see
A young man walking by
The fruit fell from my hand
And hit him on the head
With a lump so grand
I thought that he was dead
Then the male part started again.
I woke and rubbed my eye
And saw a fine young lass
A goddess from the sky
I hoped a kiss would pass
For the final verse, the entire glade erupted into song.
Then we said let us be wed
And now we share a bed!
The song ended with a resounding chord, and the crowd broke out into raucous cheers. Craicwyth and two other men emerged from the mob and hoisted Katrina up onto their shoulders. Her face filled with joyous glee as they paraded her around the glade, with everyone toasting the happy couple. Dagorat admired his beautiful new bride. When the men came back around, he rubbed his hands, licked his lips and held his arms out. They deposited Katrina in them. He kissed her passionately to a chorus of howls and whistles. Joy swelled in his chest, something he hadn’t experienced in many years.
Nearby, Craicwyth grabbed Magda in a big hug. “You’re still my bride after all these years.” Magda caressed his face and rested her head on his chest. Her eyes closed, and her face expressed a glorious contentment.
Katrina whispered to Dagorat, “That’s what we’re going to be like years from now.”
Dagorat closed his eyes and imagined himself and Katrina grown old. They sat in front of a roaring fire in a snug little cottage while the snow came down outside. Their oldest son had come to visit, bringing his wife and new baby girl. He caressed Katrina’s graying hair as she leaned back against his legs and shook a rattle for the infant. If only life were that simple and right. Maybe once their mission was done, he’d work to make it a reality.
The feast continued into the night. Later, the mood became quiet and solemn as the fire dimmed, but nobody left. They were all waiting to see the couple off. Dagorat scanned the crowd, at peace with the world. On the edge of the firelight, Cyril stared pensively into the distance, fidgeting with a small handkerchief, occasionally lifting it to his nose. Liberon had overindulged in the ale, and was busy pestering one of the troubadours to teach him to sing. Eventually, Katrina released a wide yawn. The lead troubadour pointed at her, grinning, and struck a chord on his lute.
I saw a yawning bride
“To bed, to bed,” I cried
Where is the lucky groom?
He must take her to their room!
What a great idea! Dagorat swept Katrina off her feet and held her against his chest. His gaze delved deeply into her eyes and soaked in her love and affection.
The men and women split to either side, leaving a path back to the wagon. As Dagorat walked, the men chanted, “Make a boy child, a warrior strong and brave.”
The women answered, “Make a girl child, a warrior strong and brave.”
“Make a boy child, a master hunter.”
“Make a girl child, a master of the bow.”
Katrina smiled at Dagorat. “I think we’re going to have to do this a lot in order to please everyone.” He gave her a smirk. Indeed. Surrounded by the cheering crowd, he helped her up into the wagon and clambered in after her.
Cyril and Liberon closed the flaps and tied them shut. After the crowd dispersed, they set up their bedrolls near the fires.
***
After the dawn broke, Dagorat threw open the flaps and inhaled the fresh morning air. The trees appeared greener and the world brighter. He aimed his face at the morning sun, for once relishing the warm rays. It had been too long since he’d felt so at peace in the light of day.
He and Katrina jumped down and strolled over to the ashes of last night’s campfire. The glade looked as if a herd of balomphs had passed through. At least there was no trash; some of the guests must have stayed and cleaned. How nice of them. Off to one side, a small mound of dirt marked where they must have buried the scraps. Liberon still slept, but Cyril sat nearby, smoking his pipe. Dagorat peered at his friend’s red, puffy eyes. Had the old man slept at all?
“Let’s get a fire going for some tea,” Katrina said.
Cyril perked up. “And perhaps some eggs.”
“How could you possibly be hungry after last night’s feast?” Katrina asked.
“A tad too rustic for my taste. Especially the soup.” Cyril offered a playful wink.
Katrina snorted. “That didn’t stop you from eating two bowls.”
After a grin, Cyril retorted, “Hunger is the best sauce.” He tapped Dagorat’s arm. “Remember Dranghold’s tavern? Such fine fare in there.” He closed his eyes. “Mmm.”
“Yes, I remember.”
Cyril raised a brow. “We could try to –”
He placed a hand on Cyril’s shoulder and shook his head. “No, my friend. It’s too risky.”
“You’re probably right.” The mage twitched his foot.
At that moment, Liberon stirred and stretched. “What’s too risky? If there’s something you or Cyril wish to reconcile with The One, I’m available.”
Katrina shot Dagorat a playful grin. “He’s right. Maybe you two should reconcile. I’d love to hear that story again.”
“I’m sure the need for confession isn’t limited to me and Cyril,” Dagorat said. “Remember that spyglass of yours?”
“Hmmph.” With a suggestive wink, she sauntered back to the wagon and curled a finger to summon Dagorat. When he approached, she whispered, “Close the flaps for some privacy.”
Dagorat pulled the canvasses together and tied them closed. He went in for a kiss but stopped when he overheard Cyril’s low voice outside. “Again?”
Liberon responded, “Are they going to…um…you know? In the middle of the morning?”
Cyril spoke in a loud and truncated fashion, like a talentless actor. “I-think-I’ll-go-and-fetch-some-wa-ter, Li-ber-on.”
“I’ll…I’ll-come-with-you,” Liberon said in an equally pinched voice.
Katrina giggled. “I think we made them nervous.”
Dagorat winked at her. “They’ll get over it.”
***
Cyril put the buckets down on the bank of the river. “I hate getting my feet wet.”
“Very well, I’ll fill them.” Liberon waded into the water and filled the buckets. He sloshed his way back onto the river bed and hooked the buckets up to a yoke. “How long does it take?”
“How long does what take?”
Li
beron pointed back toward their camp. “You know. The unmentionable things they’re doing to each other.”
“As long as it takes. Perhaps a minute, perhaps three hours.”
“I always imagined these things between men and women happened in the wee hours of the night.”
Cyril shook his head. “Like the creatures of the land, sea, and sky, we have a mating season as well.”
Liberon tilted his head. “Really? I’ve never heard that before.”
The mage flashed a grin. “Yes. But either to the chagrin or ecstasy of others, it lasts three hundred and sixty-five days per year. It can happen at any time or any place. And for any reason.”
A horn in the distance signaled that the caravan was leaving. “Back to the wagon,” Cyril said.
“But what if they’re not done with – ” He clasped his hands and repeatedly pressed and released his palms. “You know.”
“They’ve heard the horn, too. Come along.”
CHAPTER 17
SOMETHING STIRS IN THE WOOD
BRIGHT SUNLIGHT BLAZED INTO DAGORAT’S eyes from the east. He trudged along next to the wagon, scratching at his scruffy cheeks. Some wedding sojourn. The road stretched on forever without wavering, straight and boring. Years ago, when he and Cyril fled Easterly, they had avoided this road. Their rough trek through the forests and mountains had been arduous. But at least it was interesting.
The dirt and sprouts of dried grass on either side of the road hadn’t altered their appearance in days. He wished for some colored blossoms, anything other than dull brown tones. The only other color came from the needles on the spine trees to the north and leaves in the Girish Forest to the south. In the near distance, he thought he spied some autumn colors. Had they been on the road for so long?
Within such a setting, Dagorat imagined himself as a mere speck on the face of the world. He glanced lovingly at Katrina, who stared off into the distance with a pensive glaze over her eyes as she walked. An odd thought crossed his mind. Now one with her, together they comprised a double speck. The thought comforted him, somehow.
“Another exciting day on the road,” she said in a flat tone. “Ride the wagon all morning, at midday rest the horses and eat last night’s leftovers. Then a few more hours before someone blows another damn horn again. Stop, make a fire, cook, eat, sleep.”
Perched on the driver’s bench with Liberon, Cyril looked up from his pipe. “Precisely the part about adventure usually omitted in the ancient tales and tomes. The long hours of nothingness which separate the few fleeting moments of excitement.”
“Did you gather any spices last night?” Katrina asked him. “I’d like to eat something with actual flavor.”
“Yes. I traded for some dried ones.”
“I hope Magda and Craicwyth join us tonight. If there’s enough food maybe those musicians will come by, too.” She sounded listless.
Dagorat winced. He’d denied his new bride access to Jalken, and now their so-called “wedding sojourn” consisted of long days of boredom. She deserved better. During the midday stop he’d go invite Magda and Craicwyth over for a meal. Perhaps the musicians, too. Good company might make things up to her. To tell the truth, the entire group needed a change of pace. Over the past week, even Cyril had started repeating some of his old stories.
A horn blast interrupted his melancholy thoughts. Liberon lifted a hand to observe the position of the sun. “It’s too early for –” A second horn sounded, and then a third.
“Defensive position, Liberon!” Dagorat yelled. “We’re under attack!” Adrenaline surged through his body, making his blood sing. He leaped into the back of the wagon, and gave his bride a hand up. Despite the danger, he found himself grinning in anticipation. At least today would be interesting.
With a jerk on the reins, Liberon followed wagons forty-five, -six and -seven off the road to create a small circle. All around them, other clusters of wagons did the same. Shouted orders came from the columns of Jalkenese Defenders interspersed throughout the caravan.
Dagorat and company all moved to defend the exposed side of their wagon. Cyril stood next to the horses, staff at the ready. Liberon crouched behind a wheel, clutching a quarterstaff. Katrina huddled in the well of the driver’s bench, dagger in hand. But Dagorat preferred to fight in a more open space and planted himself at the side of the wagon. He drew Frostbite and hefted it in his hand.
As everyone moved into position, the clamor dwindled down to an eerie silence, broken only by the occasional horse’s whinny. “Where are they?” Dagorat scanned the terrain in all different directions. A clash of weapons rang out in the distance, by the front of the caravan. Squinting, he spotted large figures fighting with Defenders near the lead wagon.
Katrina had pulled out her spyglass. “Orcs!”
Shouts erupted from the circle to their left. Dagorat’s eyes followed the noise; more of the beasts charged at the poor sods. Before he could run off and aid them, Craicwyth yelled, “Dagorat!” The older man pointed to the Girish Forest. “Something’s moving over there.”
His gaze followed Craicwyth’s finger and studied the tree line. All quiet.
Then a branch swayed.
An orc burst from the woods, its beady black eyes fixed upon him, as if sensing a meal. With a blood-curdling scream, it charged. Dagorat tightened his grip on Frostbite. This would not be the first orc he’d slain. Nor the last, no doubt.
Time slowed. The creature wore random scraps of rusted mail and carried a worn shield. Black saliva dripped from its mouth, and the wind delivered a horrid stench like old, rotting meat.
Their eyes locked. Dagorat growled and settled into a fighting stance. Out of nowhere, something whizzed by his left ear, and the foul creature collapsed to the ground. He did a double take. A dagger was lodged in its forehead. From where? A glance over his shoulder revealed Katrina readying a second dagger. He grinned at her. “I knew I loved you for a special reason.”
His wife didn’t return the smile, but winked instead. She stared past him at the forest’s edge. Her eyes widened. Dagorat spun around. About twenty more orcs ran out from the green. Korak’s stenchy pits.
“Dag! Fall back and take cover with us,” Katrina cried.
One of the orcs pointed at their fallen comrade. Judging from the better quality of this new one’s armor and the amount of piercings on his face, he had to be the leader. He pointed his sword at Dagorat and cried, “Lakh gholash!” All the orcs stared at Dagorat. Some growled and others released a war-cry. Then one of them screeched and fell, an arrow stuck its neck.
“Die, filthy orc!” Craicwyth raised his bow. “Back to the slime from whence you came!” He called to Dagorat, “Let them come. Hunting is hunting. Oleni beasts or orcs, it makes no difference.” With a hysterical laugh, he readied another arrow. “How easy to taunt them!”
“Dag, fall back,” Katrina repeated in a higher pitch.
The orc leader pointed to Craicwyth. “Takh gholash!” Then back to Dagorat. “Lakh gholash!”
Two groups charged in the next moment, half at each of the two men. Craicwyth yelled as he released another arrow. “Your mother was uglier than a hell hound!”
Ten at once. Perhaps falling back wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He backed up to stand next to a stoic, stiff Liberon. “You seem rather calm,” Dagorat told him.
Liberon did not respond. With his focus fixed upon the orcs, he muttered a soft prayer. “The Light must shine. The Light triumphs over darkness and fear. By the Light I am saved.”
Someone else came to stand at Dagorat’s shoulder. He whirled. The rest of their circle were all running over to help defend the spot, carrying a hodgepodge of swords, clubs, slings, bows, daggers, and poles. All around him, the ragtag defenders took up defensive postures and clamped their jaws. No Jalkenese Defenders joined them; they’d all run off to help the other circles. Those who had them loosed their arrows and slings, but it wasn’t enough to stop the charge. Dagorat set his feet, braced for the
onslaught.
But before they even came close, a number of orcs slammed to the ground, thrashing about in death throes. Arrows wobbled in their backs and skulls, thick black blood spurting from their wounds. One by one, their ranks thinned. The last to fall was the leader, not twenty yards away, with an arrowhead through the jugular. But the arrow’s tip was under the thing’s chin. It had to have come from behind the horde, then. Who…?
Sighs of relief and disappointment sounded through the defenders’ ranks. “That was over before it even started,” Liberon said. He sounded as if someone had taken away his birthday. Dagorat snorted.
“Ack. I wanted to slay an orc,” one man said. He threw his club to the ground.
“We should be thankful we didn’t lose anyone,” Magda said.
Something stirred at the forest’s edge. Dagorat focused on the spot. “Stay ready.”
A long-haired woman stepped out from the forest into plain sight. Her tall and slender body moved with confidence. Forest-green eyes shone against a pale, but not sickly, complexion smudged with dirt. Angular eyebrows and high cheekbones on a thin face lent a certain gentleness to her appearance. Hair of golden-brown silk draped to her waist. She held a bow nocked and ready, pointed at the ground. The condition of her clothes spoke of many days of riding and camping in the wilderness. As she drew close, a pointed ear protruded from her hair. Dagorat blinked, then stared. By Korak’s dangling nuts, an Elf?
More of her kind revealed themselves, stepping out into the open. That answered where the arrows had come from, then. But why were they here? As a group, the Elves approached the wagon. Their gray-green clothes sported odd-shaped patches of tan and brown.
Liberon stepped up next to Dagorat.
“I think they’re Elves. See their ears?” Dagorat said.
“But just look at them,” Liberon said. “They’re nothing like the pictures in the monastery’s books.” He rubbed his eyes and forehead. “Where’s their aura of light, shining golden hair, lighter-than-air grace? If not for the eyebrows and ears, they’d be no different from anyone else.” A sigh passed his lips. “I guess there’s only one way to know for sure.” He held his left hand at chest height, palm to the ground and fingers stiff and straight. Spreading the fingers of his right hand, he turned his palm toward the Elves and slowly raised it toward the sky, passing behind his left hand in the process.
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