Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

Talon took flight from Hyden’s shoulder and drew the creature’s attention for a heartbeat. Phen ignored it and stalked over to Oarly. A low, moaning sound came from deep within him as he went.

Hyden nocked an arrow and took aim at the beast’s good eye. It opened its mouth wide and tried to roar. The sound that came was an intimidating spew of bright scarlet. In the back of the creature’s throat, Hyden saw Oarly’s dagger. It was buried to the hilt in the roof of the beast’s mouth. The Gwag was in pain. Hyden’s rage was leaking away because the long, strange-bodied creature had only been doing its duty guarding the fountain. This creature wasn’t responsible for Oarly’s death. Hyden spoke calmingly to it. Whatever spell had bound it to guard the fountain was most likely broken. This was just a scared, dying animal.

A sudden sensation of a heavy burden being lifted from his soul swept over Hyden. He turned to see that Talon had landed on the chin of one of the mermaids and was bathing in the flow it was spitting forth. Hyden could feel Talon’s relief. The lingering effects of the red priest’s spell were being cleansed away from the hawkling like mud.

Phen would have retched if he could have. Oarly was mangled beyond recognition. Only the old boots he wore were recognizable. They were the same boots that had one time been the root of a hundred jests over Hyden’s poor spellcasting ability. Phen wanted to cry but wouldn’t allow himself the emotion. He wanted to curl himself up into a ball and scream, but knew he couldn’t let himself succumb to grief. Instead, he let out a primal roar of his own. The sound was so harrowing that the Gwag shrank back against the wall and began to shiver.

His expression blank, and his movements mechanical, Phen picked the bloody, half-chewed body of his friend up in his arms and hurriedly staggered toward the fountain pool. Spike kept his eyes on the Gwag, but relaxed his hackles and mewled sadly at his familial master. The creature could feel Phen’s grief.

Phen stepped over the low retaining wall and sat down with his friend’s body in his lap. Only after Brady Culvert had been melted by the black dragon had he ever felt as much loss.

Hyden was afraid to drop his guard. His arrow might be the only thing to keep the trembling beast from panicking and attacking Phen. His eyes were filling with tears of anguish. He couldn’t believe the wily old dwarven prankster was gone, but he was. As grief-stricken as he was, though, he couldn’t help but smile when he saw fresh tears streaming down Phen’s brightly pinkening cheeks. The Leif Repline was restoring the boy.

“Put Oarly in,” he called out, hoping against hope that there was life still left in the dwarf.

Phen did, but all that happened was the release of his pent-up emotion. Oarly was beyond saving.

The Choska had been mortally wounded. Being a demon, only its body was going to die. Its malignant soul would be pulled back into the Nethers where it would rally and ready the others of its kind to prepare them for the breaching of the seal. Even as it died, it served the Warlord, carrying Shaella’s body out of the marshes and over Dakahn. The dead Choska glided to a crash near Lokahna, at the edge of a farm. Shaella’s body survived the tumble and she ended up stumbling, bruised and bloody, toward a little cottage.

The farmer’s son, a young man of seventeen years, saw her clinging to a fence post. She was half-naked, shaven-headed, and trembling in the early winter chill. He gave her his cloak. He put her on his horse and led her back to the warm safety of the farmhouse. She wouldn’t speak, so the boy’s mother tended her wounds, bathed her, and put her in some ill-fitting clothes while the boy and his father rode out to see from where she had come. They found the Choska twisted and broken. Clutched in one of its claws was a piece of the strange girl’s clothes.

“What is it, Da?”

“Can’t say, Tarren.” He scratched his stubbly chin. “Naught good, I’d guess. She’s a lucky lass.”

“Can I have her for a wife, then?” Tarren asked seriously. “She’s far more prettier than Mara Swain.”

“That she is, lad, but she might be married already. She might be trouble, too.”

“A roll with that might be worth a little trouble, huh?” Tarren joked with his father.

“Most likely,” the older man grinned. “Once she gets her wits back she will probably want to return to her kinfolk. I suppose, since winter is on us, you could help her home and find out.”

Later that evening at the supper table, Tarren and his parents slowly ate their meal while staring at the strange, stubble-haired girl who wouldn’t speak. They had asked her a hundred questions. Her only response was to look at them with helpless doe eyes and to clutch at herself as if she were freezing.

In truth, the Warlord had left her mind for a time. She was thoughtless. Back in his domain he was commanding his legions to bring forth all their earthy influence and ensure that Shaella’s body made it safely to Xwarda.

The Lord of the Hells learned that one of his devils had a following in the Valleyan town of Strond. Among the worshipers was a wagon master who was more than willing to appease his chosen deity. Already, a carriage was being readied to meet Shaella in Kastill. All the Warlord needed now was to get Shaella’s body across the river into Valleya. It was a three-hour hike at worst, but without warm clothes or shoes, it could be impossible.

Coming back into Shaella’s consciousness, the Warlord had to be mindful of the voice he used when he spoke. It wouldn’t do for the bewildered stranger at the farmhouse to speak out in the voice of the Dark One. The Warlord chose not to speak for a while. He sized up the family before entering the conversation.

“Maybe she's from O’Dakahn, Dran,” the wife said to her husband. “Wildra Swain said there’s a barrelful of loonies running around there who drink that fire brew and smoke frog skins and such.” She leaned forward and continued in a whisper, as if Shaella couldn’t hear her. “Maybe she's one of them.”

“She was carried here by some winged beast, Ma,” Terran said defensively. “You think them loonies from the city fly around in the claws of beasts?”

The mother dropped her eyes and shook her head, making her chubby cheeks jiggle. Her husband whacked Terran with the back of his hand. “Speak to your ma with respect, boy,” he growled.

“I’m from Southron,” Shaella said sheepishly. She sounded as if she were a scared girl of only ten summers. “My ma shaved my head ‘cause I got the lice. Where am I? I’m so afraid.” She burst into tears then and buried her face in her hands.

“See there, Ma,” Terran said, rubbing the knot on his head. “She’s not some loony from the city.”

“What’s your name, child?” the farmer’s wife asked. “There’s nothing to fear here. We’re simple folk. So come on now, tell me your name.”

“Shae,” the Warlord answered, peeking through Shaella’s tears at Terran. “Thank you for bringing me in from the cold.”

“My da says I can help you get home,” Terran said excitedly. His expression abruptly changed to a look of concern. “You ain't got no husband, do ya?”

The Warlord wanted to take the carving knife from the meat plate and jab it into this oaf’s eye. That, or just lean forth and take a bite out of his face. Instead, he let a grin show on Shaella’s face. “Not yet,” she blushed, partially from the anger of having to partake in this farce, partly because she was working to restrain herself. The Warlord knew from that moment on that the boy would be smitten with Shaella.

That night, Terran and his mother went into the attic and found some warm clothes, some boots, and a cloak for Shae. The father dug up his jar of coins and shook out a handful of coppers for his son to use on his journey to Southron. He couldn’t spare them horses to ride, but since the snow decided to start coming down that evening, he could at least make sure they could afford a stall, or a loft to sleep in, and a hot meal or two on their journey.