Toby Neighbors - Crying Havoc

The dragon disappeared into the night, and Offendorl was forced to remove the helmet to break the link he had with the beast’s mind, which was so crazed with fear it was scrambling the wizard’s own thoughts.

“What is happening?” cried Belphan.

“Zollin,” Offendorl said angrily. “The boy knows how to defeat a dragon.”

“What do we do now?” Zorlan said.

“Now we do what I should have done all along,” Offendorl said. “I’ll go after the boy myself.”

But not now, he thought, now I need rest. He raised himself from his chair, and for the first time in centuries he felt fear. He shook off the fear, angry with himself. This upstart boy had some skill, but no one could stand before Offendorl. For over two centuries he had been the most powerful wizard in the Five Kingdoms. Tomorrow he would prove that he still was.

“Ready your troops,” said Offendorl. “We attack at dawn.”

Mansel was in his room. One of the wenches had been enlisted to tend his wounds. Mansel had removed all his clothes except for his undergarment which he had pulled down on one side. He had a deep cut on his hip, and the gash on his lower leg was even worse. The girl, not quite as old as Mansel himself, washed the hip wound with cool water. Her eyes kept darting up to his wide shoulders and the thick muscles in his chest. Then, she began to stitch the wound with practiced movements.

“You’re good at that,” he said through clenched teeth.

“My mother taught me to sew,” she said in a flirty tone that was completely lost on Mansel. “She took work as a seamstress but made me and my sisters do all the sewing once we learned how.”

It took half an hour to stitch up Mansel’s hip wound. When the wench turned to the leg, she frowned. The muscle was swelling and bulging out of the gash.

“I can’t stitch this one,” she said. “You need a healer.”

“Just sew it up,” Mansel said, taking a long drink of the innkeeper’s strongest wine.

“I can’t, the muscle is sticking through.”

“Daft girl!” Mansel shouted at her.

He raised his leg up, groaning with the pain, and poured wine over the wound. Then he used his fingers to push the swollen muscle back into the skin. Blood poured onto the floor.

“Start stitching,” he said, his voice straining from the pain.

The girl looked woozy, as if she might pass out at any moment, but she stitched up the wound as neatly as she could. The wound was bright red and looked hideous as it curved up his calf.

“That’s a damn ugly job,” he said in a hateful tone. “No wonder your mother sent you off to be a whore.”

The girl ran from the room, and Mansel took another long drink of wine. The alcohol didn’t numb the pain, but it dulled his senses enough that he didn’t notice it as much. He was about to curse that the girl had left the door open when a man stepped in. He was around the same age as Mansel, but not as big. He had long, curly, blonde hair that fell around his shoulders and a boyish-looking face. He had a neat mustache that he obviously trimmed and combed daily. His eyes were bright and he wore a military uniform.

“Are you Mansel?” the man asked.

“Yes, what’s it to you?”

“You’re wanted at the castle.”

“By who?”

“A lot of people, actually. The King’s at the top of the list, though.”

“As you can see, I’m busy at the moment. I’ll swing by in the morning.”

“Oh, no,” said the stranger. “That won’t do. I’ve been sent to fetch you. I wouldn’t want you trying to slip away since you’re wanted for murder.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Mansel said.

“I have it on good authority that you killed a man on your way to the city. Almost killed another one in the stable. I’ll have to take you in,” he said. He was talking so nonchalantly that it was hard to tell if he was serious or joking.

Mansel reached over for his sword.

“Oh, I was hoping you’d do that,” the stranger said.

“Who are you?” Mansel asked. “I like to know the names of the people I’m killing.”

“I’m Commander Corlis, of the King’s Heavy Horse. I come bringing tidings of your friend Zollin and his father.”

“Go to hell,” Mansel spat, rising to his feet.

“Oh, no, I’m a gentleman. We go to heaven.”

Mansel drew his sword from its scabbard in one quick motion and attacked, swinging a vicious cut toward the commander’s thigh. Corlis jumped back and drew his own weapon. It was a longsword, well made and light, much like Mansel’s.

“It’s too bad you’re wounded,” Corlis said. “I was hoping for a fair fight.”

“You’ll get more than you can handle,” Mansel said.

He lunged forward, thrusting his sword out in front of him. Corlis parried with his own blade and thrust out a light slap of a kick that landed on Mansel’s bandaged hip. He cried out in pain and staggering back.

“Ah, just as I suspected,” said Corlis. “This is going to be easy.”

Mansel’s vision went red. All he could hear was a roaring sound in his ears. He grabbed the wooden chair he had been sitting in and threw it at the Commander, who side-stepped out of the way. It was exactly what Mansel expected the soldier to do; in fact, he had thrown the chair wide to the far side so that his opponent would dodge toward Mansel, who flicked his sword forward and up, slicing through Corlis’s shoulder. The commander cried out in pain and staggered backward, but Mansel showed the man no quarter. He hammered Corlis with blow after blow from his sword. Corlis blocked the blows but was pushed back into the corner of the room. His shoulder was bleeding, and he was forced to fight using both hands to counter Mansel’s power.

After several hammer-like blows, Mansel feinted high then shifted to a low thrust that cut across the Commander’s thigh, skidding off the thick femur bone. Corlis cried out, almost dropping his weapon, and Mansel moved forward wearing a wicked grin.

He didn’t feel the dagger stab him at first; he just realized that something was wrong because his sword seemed too heavy in his hand. He looked down at his hand, and saw Corlis yank the narrow blade free. Then fire erupted in his gut and Mansel’s legs gave out underneath him.

“You stabbed me,” he said in surprise.

“You’re lucky Zollin wants you alive, you bloody oaf,” Corlis said.

Then he spit on Mansel, who wanted to fight back, but his body wasn’t obeying his commands. He felt warm liquid running over his thigh, and he realized it was his bladder emptying itself.

“Try not to die, bastard,” Corlis said as he hobbled from the room.

Mansel laid his head back on the wooden floor of his room. The ceiling was plaster and a bit dingy from candle smoke. He thought of Nycoll for the first time in months. Nycoll with her little cottage by the sea. He wanted to go there, to be with her, but he was in Orrock. He was dying on the floor of an inn in Orrock and he didn’t know why. What had happened, he wondered to himself as the room began to spin around him. His stomach lurched, and he rolled over to vomit, the bile burning his throat and smearing across his cheek when he couldn’t hold his head up any longer. The lights were going dim and there was a ringing in his ears. Mansel knew he was dying, and his biggest regret was that Nycoll would not know what happened to him. He had promised her that he would return.

* * *

“You’re wounded!” the innkeeper cried when he saw Commander Corlis. “You’re bleeding on the floors.”

“Not as badly as your patron,” Corlis said in vile tone. “He’s bleeding all over your precious floor. I think I smelled urine too. That’s too bad for you. I’ll send some men to collect him soon. Try to see that he lives.”