Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

“Run me through,” Sergeant Tolbar yelled through clenched teeth from the ground. His body was a ruin lying in the middle of the torchlit scene. How he was still alive was beyond reasoning. “Kill me, man. Come on, do it,” he begged the stupefied man looking down at him.

Petar climbed from his horse and ran to the sergeant. A glance told him that the wounds were fatal. He didn’t hesitate when he pushed his blade tip through Tolbar’s throat, but he did mumble a prayer.

“Well met, Lieutenant,” Commander Lyle said gruffly to the only man he recognized.

“I couldn’t stay around Weir after what happened,” the wiry man said, pulling on his long mustache. His expression was tense and confused as he glanced around the bloody body-strewn road. “But by the gods, Commander, it looks like I might have done better there than out here with you.”

One of the men sitting on the wagon fell forward into the horses. The horses mistook it for the command to go and started ahead. They stopped after only a few feet when the wagon wheel wouldn’t roll over a man’s arrow-ridden corpse.

“I think they were after their friends,” Commander Lyle said with a sigh of frustration. “They’re gone.”

The lieutenant rode around to the far side of the wagon and looked around. “Maybe,” he said as he gracefully leapt from his horse and bent down to retrieve something from the ground. “They killed the fisherman.” He stood back up holding the leather satchel that had been strapped around the fisherman's shoulder.

The lieutenant reached inside it and pulled out a golden crown encrusted with enough jewels to buy a castle.

“Maybe that really was Glendar’s skeleton, Commander,” the lieutenant said, seeing the Westland lion head etched into the circlet’s front-plate.

He led his horse back around to the other side of the wagon cage and passed it up to the commander.

“It has to be authentic,” Lyle said, more to himself than to anybody. The magnificent craftsmanship and the large, glittering emeralds in the piece were definitely fit for a king.

“Eight men dead, Commander,” Petar reported. It didn’t appear that the skeletons were coming back. “There are two wounded, but not grievously.”

“Thank you, Petar,” Lyle said. “See to them.” He put the crown in the saddlebag of a riderless horse and studied the scene.

“I think our orders dictate that we chase them down,” Lyle reasoned aloud. “Set up a perimeter watch and make a bonfire. In the morning we’ll bury the dead.” He turned to the former lieutenant and the men he’d brought with him. “Will you be joining us?”

“I do believe it best. We’ve lost our old employment,” the lieutenant said. “My name is Mordon Garret, and we are at your service.”

Corva wanted to be mad at Dostin for slowing him down, but he couldn’t. The monk was as determined as he was to catch up with Telgra. Dostin hadn’t asked for food, or rest, and he didn’t complain when Corva pressed them on through the passes well after dark. Sometimes Dostin pushed the elf. King Jarrek had given them each a horse, and a pack horse for them to share. Corva didn’t ride, though. He loped alongside Dostin’s mount and gave the horses a run for it. Ironically, it was Corva’s haste that caused them to pass right by the quest party encampment in the night.

Both Corva and Dostin saw the bonfire, and the guards. The overloaded wagons looked like they were part of a trade caravan. A single loud snoring, like that of a huge ox or maybe a stud bull, cut through the night. By dawn it was too far behind them to even wonder about. They had no idea that Telgra was coming through the pass toward northern Wildermont. When Corva and Dostin left King Jarrek three days ago, it was assumed she was waiting for them at the red castle in Dreen.

Corva had been mystified to tears by all the destruction they'd seen. It was baffling to think that one wizard could have done so much damage. It was also frightening to think that the Queen Mother had refused to aid King Mikahl and Hyden Hawk, even after Vaegon had pleaded their cause to her. It was true, he realized, that by stopping the demon wizard Pael from manipulating the Wardstone, Mikahl, Hyden, and Vaegon had saved all the races of the realm, including the elves. He was more than a little ashamed when the well loved and respected Wolf King told the whole of the tale. King Jarrek had fought with Vaegon and the others on the walls and in the streets of Xwarda. Had they not just witnessed firsthand High King Mikahl’s bright horse and the power of his sword, they might not have believed the fantastical story. It was hard enough to believe that Pael had tapped the power of demons and leveled the entire city of Castlemont. To think that King Mikahl had eventually cut off the wizard’s head after a grueling two-day duel of magical forces was unfathomable.

Corva planned on having a long talk with Telgra. His hope was to influence her to start chipping away at her mother’s policy of not involving themselves in human affairs. Obviously, the Queen Mother, her advisors, and the many members of elven society had no idea how close they had come to being annihilated. Corva had to find Telgra first, though, and then hope that she would listen to him. She had an open mind, but if she was anything, she was headstrong.

“I need food,” Dostin said weakly as they topped a low-backed ridge of shelved stone. The sun was high overhead but the breeze was cold. Corva decided that the horses needed a break as well.

“Let’s get down there into the valley,” Corva pointed. “There’s less wind, and still some green grass for the horses.”

Dostin didn’t answer; he just heeled his mount down the slope into the multicolored valley below. The trees that still had leaves shivered red and gold and brown in the wind. The monk was glad to find Corva had spoken true. In the valley bottom he found a place in the sun out of the wind and climbed off of his horse with a groan. He took three painful steps and his legs wobbled out from under him.

Corva laughed and took the reins of Dostin’s mounts. He hobbled the horses in a wide patch of grass and went about removing the saddles. He sat the packs by the exhausted monk and rummaged through them until he found some food. They ate bread and cheese and dried salted meat, then drank watered wine from a flask. Dostin fell asleep and Corva sat back and listened to the birds calling over the rustling of the leaves.

He must have slept, too, for when he opened his eyes again he and Dostin were no longer in the sun. Evening was approaching. Reluctantly he woke the monk, and after they ate and drank some more, Dostin gingerly climbed back onto his horse.

Thoughts of seeing the elven princess safe and sound overrode any soreness either of them felt. If they kept their pace, in two days they would be in Dreen. With that in mind, they worked their way up and out of the valley and in total silence kept traveling through the darkness of the night.

The first day had been pleasant for the quest party. The second only slightly less so, but by the third night they were all on edge. The hard board seats hammered at their arses as the wagons worked through the rough mountain road. The four guardsmen rode horses unattached to the wagons and were the envy of the rest of the group. Telgra chose to jog most of the time, which frustrated Phen because he couldn’t keep pace with her, or even the wagons. Overloaded as they were, the four-horse teams had little trouble pulling them along at a brisk pace.

Unbelievably, the nights were worse than the days. Oarly’s persistent and extremely loud snoring carried on from the time he fell asleep until he woke. And waking him during the night was impossible. Luckily, the dwarf was up just before dawn every morning by himself. Only then did anyone else get a chance to sleep. The group had unconsciously been leaving camp later in the mornings and traveling longer into the night, so that they could steal those few hours of sleep as the sun rose. Everyone in the group, save for Phen and Oarly, was red-eyed and cranky at best.