The Wood Cutter's Son

by Thomas Wright

  “Drink now and you will be refreshed beyond your human thirst.” The water rippled as she spoke. Morgan dropped the ladle in and drank the cold, clean water.

  “More,” she ordered. He took another ladle full and drank it down. It must have done something, because he wasn’t so tongue-tied when the ripples cleared and her face appeared again. He felt like he could chop wood nonstop for a week.

  “I have questions for you. Will you answer them?” he asked the water bucket.

  “If it suits me. If I find you deserving of my answer.”

  “Maybe I’m done and don’t care for this game anymore,” he stated for the record and dropped the bucket back into the well. He tried not to smile; he knew he had already made a mistake. How much more trouble would a smile get him?

  A few seconds later, it felt like something was ripping his guts out from the inside. He fell against the wood pile, then to his hands and knees. His stomach convulsed and what little he had in his stomach came up violently. It continued until he was dry heaving. Then it finally subsided, and he fell over and rolled onto his back. The grass felt cool on his neck and arms. He closed his eyes and passed out. The dreams he had weren’t much better than whatever had twisted his insides. The cool grass and their homestead were gone. Smoke rose into the sky and the ground was black where his home once stood. The town was burnt out. Husks of buildings partially burned still stood while others were ash piles on the ground. Bodies were scattered and rotting or burnt to a black char.

  He heard a whisper in his mind. Death rides south on fiery hooves.

  Morgan’s eyes fluttered open, wet and blurry. Tears ran down the side of his head into his hair. He was aware of each tear and its progress. They felt cool even after they broke up in his hair. A shadow blocked the sun as hands slid under his shoulders and arms lifted his head slightly off the ground then pulled his body across the grass into the shade of the house. He heard the soft rustle of cloth and turned his head. A figure in a green cloak silently moved across the grass toward the wood.

  “Wait! Please,” he rasped, his throat sore from heaving up his insides. She stopped and turned toward him, but made no move to return.

  “Gabriella,” she yelled. “Your brother is sick. Come tend to him.” She turned back and continued to the wood, her forest of shade and shadow.

  Two sets of footsteps hurried in Morgan’s direction. He raised his head and saw his mother and sister come around the corner. Their faces changed from curiosity to worry. His sister ran to his side, his mother a few paces behind.

  “Are you all right?” Gabby asked, touching his face she turned his head, inspecting it for damage.

  “Stop, Gabby, I’m fine. I was overheated and drank too much water. I’ll be fine in a few minutes.”

  His mother stared toward the wood. “Who was the woman who yelled for us?” she asked. Gabby looked at him and waited. She wasn’t going to answer for him.

  “She is the ranger the elves have assigned to watch over the wood that shares our property.”

  “Her voice was commanding, yet warm and friendly.”

  “I didn’t notice.”

  “There is an arrow stuck in the ground over there. She must have dropped it,” his mother said. Gabby produced a knowing smile.

  “We should offer her our hospitality, Mother,” Gabby said with a sly look on her face. “She did help Morgan, after all. Otherwise he may have lay out here lazing the day away. Now he can go back to work.”

  “Thanks, baby sister, you’ll make some man a right fine anvil one day.”

  “Let us go in and have our midday meal,” Mother said. “Morgan is probably starving with his breakfast lying over there on the ground.”

  Supper, Morgan thought. Gabby still smiled but this time he wasn’t sure what her smile foretold. It could very well be revenge after his anvil comment.

  “With your father and brothers gone, we have plenty of food. Gabriella, go invite the ranger to supper. Tell her I insist.”

  “Mother, there is no need. She will not come whether you insist or not,” Morgan said, hoping he could change her mind.

  “Morgan! Your father and I raised you better than that. We will make the invitation. It will be her choice to come or not. Now get up before I’m inclined to agree with your sister about you lazing around all day.”

  *****

  Alexis saw Gabriella and her mother tend to Morgan and go inside their home. Gabriella walked out of the house and headed toward her. If Morgan was sending her to beg, she would leave and stay away for a few weeks. She needed to, anyway. She put the arrow out, so he should be the one making the trip out to talk to her. She came to a stop at the same spot they had talked previously.

  “Ranger, are you there? May I speak with you? I have something to request of you,” Gabby said.

  “The deal we struck with an arrow in the ground meant I would speak with your brother. Does he wish to change the deal he himself suggested?”

  “My message is not from Morgan. Mother requests your presence at supper tonight for aiding Morgan.”

  “Tell your mother that I must decline.”

  “I think she said it would be very bad manners for you to refuse without a good reason.”

  “Did Morgan put your mother up to this supper invitation?”

  “No. Morgan was against the idea. Didn’t sound like he wanted you there, I’m sorry for saying.”

  Alexis thought on what she heard for a moment. “Tell your mother I accept and will be there at dusk.”

  “Thank you. That will make her very happy. May I ask your name, good ranger?”

  “Alexis. You and your mother may use it.”

  “And Morgan?”

  “He has not earned the right.”

  “Has he offended you so that you have these constant feelings of anger toward him?”

  “He did offend me. I have heard his explanation, but he should have sought a different solution than insulting me and my people.”

  “He did that? I will tell mother and you will see him on his knees begging your forgiveness.”

  “No, Gabriella, I would like to see his mettle and hear it from him without your intervention. I will say that he did apologize, but he smiled and I could tell he enjoyed his insults more than he regretted speaking them.”

  “I will meet you here at dusk and you will tell me as we walk to my home what Morgan has said. Then we will form a plan to torture him until you hear an apology that truly has his heart in it.” Gabriella reached out and touched her arm then turned and hurried back home.

  Alexis returned to her camp and gathered her things to bathe. She hoped this time she would not be visited by otherworldly creatures. She smiled at Gabriella’s enthusiasm to make her brother uncomfortable, the brief touch on her arm, the smile before she departed. Was Gabriella becoming a friend? In the next moment, she decided she would accept that friendship. To the nine hells with outdated elven laws about humans.

  Three

  Far in the north, Verlainia, Queen of the Northern Wastes sat on her throne of black marbled stone. Spring would not touch the land around her for two more months. Then there would be three months of warmth before it grew cold again. Behind her, a fire blazed in a hearth large enough to roast two sows lengthwise spitted head to tail. Even so, the heat was only enough to warm those in its closest proximity. Across the expanse, fire pits blazed, warming any who stood, sat or paced while they waited for the council meeting to start. Two orcs stood behind the queen, one on each side, twins in all aspects but the weapons they carried. One had chosen the axe, the other a war club. Chained to her throne were two male elves. They had the distinction of being her latest subjects to make her unhappy.

  Unlike her cousins in the Black Mountains, Verlainia ruled over all manner of clans. Orc, human, dwarf and goblin paid allegiance to her, standing side by side with the elves under her rule. There was a human in her court for today’s proceedings: an emissary sent to her from Icefall, her clan of the north. Hi
s name was Jarol. She knew him well. His visits began when he attended with his father Fredrik, the chief of their clan, to swear fealty as was required every summer. Now a fully grown man of twenty-four winters, he was tall like his father but not as broad-chested. His hair was cropped close to his head, and he was clean shaven, unlike the long hair and beards wore by his fellow clansmen. From the distance, his dark brown eyes looked black and alert. Always alert. Like the hawks that traveled with him, he didn’t miss a movement in front of him.

  He stood in a place where he could see everything. The grips of two weapons shown as an outline above his shoulders in the shadow. He placed one foot on the wall behind him, the other on the floor leaning back; his stance said he feared no one in the great hall, probably not even her. It was in the wake of his father’s declining health he had taken over as the representative of his clan’s council to her court, and a wise decision it was. She would have insisted on it otherwise, which might have caused some discord in her otherwise loyal clan.

  Verlainia knew Jarol’s loyalties and where he would stand if the violence broke out during the proceedings. Her personal guard, the orc brothers Qan and Mobar, were stronger, and more menacing than Jarol, but he was smart, and deadly with his hands. His father had spared no expense in his training. Verlainia had assisted by providing the best trainers to his father, for a fee of course, which he gladly paid. Jarol was more than the next clan chieftain; he was also educated in warfare unlike any Northman before him. He didn’t know it yet, but he would lead her army south, and that would lead to violence on this day in the great hall, in the Kingdom of the Northern Wastes.

  Elf, dwarf or anyone else who challenged her decision would have to face him. He would have to defend her decision and himself. It was not supposed to be a death match, but death was often the case. If he failed, it would mean much more than his death. It would cast derision on her infallible rule. Her adversaries would seize the opportunity to take her down a few notches.

  They waited for another clan chieftain from the southernmost region of her realm to arrive. Jarol hadn’t moved any part of his body except his eyes. She knew he watched everyone, not missing any brief exchange between the other guests as they worked the room, forming alliances well ahead of the meeting. A cloak of bear fur with a hood lay across his shoulders and was pulled to one side, providing a clear reach to his war axe. Teeth from a great snowcat were attached to silver chains for clasps, holding it in place. His leather armor was made from the skin of the shaggy bovine the Northmen raised and kept for food and milk. It was cured and cut into strips with polished, teardrop-shaped ringlets interwoven in rows. The strips were sewn in overlapping layers over a leather jerkin and pants resembling dragon scales.

  “My Queen, it is clear the human emissary from the south is going to be late, and we already have one of their kind present,” a haughty elf called out. “It is not like we will miss their sage council. Can we begin?”

  “Ellitholm, you know the trek from the southern border is the longest. There is still time before he and his attendants are late. You also know very well Jarol does not speak for the Southern Clan.”

  “He most certainly does not,” a deep voice rang out from the entrance. A big man, followed by four others, walked across the great hall toward the throne. “I believe we have arrived with time to spare. I have brought my children to pay their respects to you, My Queen. Railia and Tarin, step forward. Also present, my seer, Wounna and second, Berhart.”

  “Raile, no member of your party will speak here in council but you,” Verlainia said. “They may listen from the rear of the hall. It is a shame the children are full grown and have never set foot in my hall. I would have liked to have judged their worth as they grew. Some here have attended my hall since weaning off the teat.” She glanced at Jarol. Raile followed her gaze.

  “Some say he’s still suckling his mother’s teats. Although it’s just a rumor,” Raile said, laughing at his barb. His second and son laughed with him. Railia smiled and Wounna the seer stared holes in Jarol with her blind eyes. Jarol stared right back, and it was she who turned away first.

  Verlainia watched Jarol push off the wall and walk forward to stand in front with the other chieftains. “My Queen, are we to watch them trade insults or can the council meeting begin?” Ellitholm said, gaining her attention.

  “Yes, yes. I hate to say that Ellitholm is right, but as he is right so very little, I will grant him this one.”

  “I second,” said an old, gruff dwarf. “Let the council begin to deliberate war against the Southlands.”

  *****

  Jarol stood ten feet from Raile. He wasn’t upset by the slanderous remark. He had met the Southern clan chieftain once before, and expected the verbal abuse. The man was full of himself. Ellitholm was always good for some witty barb, but today he just seemed impatient. If Verlainia didn’t care, then he didn’t. Keeping an eye on Raile’s party, minding where they stood. His mind focused on two things: his safety and the subject matter for the day, war in the Southlands. Jarol’s father had suspected that was the reason for the queen calling everyone to council. This was not the first time the subject had been broached, but now it was different. The other races were dying off. The number of young born to them decreased with each summer. The winters have been lasting longer, making the already-short growing season even shorter.

  Verlainia had sent goblins south to spy and survey. She wanted information for the meeting the chieftains were now attending. They had failed to return. The goblin councilors, at the very least, were in for a bad time for the actions of the scouting party. Goblins were easily distracted and not very good at following orders. Their presence in the south would not go unnoticed, and then the element of surprise was gone. Jarol was surprised Verlainia had sent them, but was smart enough to say nothing about the decision. Instead, he looked around the room, studying the people he had never met before.

  Raile’s son Tarin was as tall as his father, but didn’t have his bulk. He also didn’t look much like a warrior. For Tarin, it was likely about the status of being the clan leader’s son. Railia was pretty—very pretty—and probably the smartest person in the group. Just a guess. Her eyes were clear and bright, and she moved with confidence, no shuffling her feet like her brother.

  Queen Verlainia surveyed her subjects and motioned her steward with a wave. The elderly elf pounded his staff three times bringing the meeting to attention. Verlainia cleared her throat and spoke in a loud clear voice. “All of you know why we meet here today and what it means for our future. Our land succumbs to the freeze longer each season and the people grow weak. Fewer children are born. We declare war on the Southlands. You might think war will be even harder on the people, but there is reward in victory and they will prosper again. Many warriors will not make it back to their homes; their sacrifices will be remembered by all. Today we will establish leadership and select another party to go south.” Verlainia paused, staring at Crag, the Goblin Clan leader. “This party will visit the Black Mountain Kingdom and try to secure their support. It will be no easy task, and the chance of failure is high, but it worth trying. Once we have settled leadership for my army, we will feast and celebrate our future success and victory. Tomorrow we will meet again and resume discussions pertaining to our strategy. Then a call will be sent out to rally the warriors of all races to ready themselves for war.”

  “We will do that if the vote is strong enough to support it,” Ellitholm said.

  “Of course, Councilor. Forgive my assumption. I thought war was better than the slow extinction of our race and that of the orc, dwarf and goblin.”

  “My Queen, what do you mean establish leadership?” the old dwarf, Stonehead, asked. “We have our armies, our generals, captains and lieutenants. We serve you.”

  “You do, and you serve me well, yet you are all separate. There will be one leader and he will be my general of generals. His word will be final.”

  Jarol looked around. Some smiled and
others frowned. He didn’t care about generals, only if he and the clansmen who followed him were treated fairly.

  “I nominate myself for the position,” Ellitholm said. “It should be clear to all I am the best—if not the only—choice.” Verlainia smiled but said nothing.

  “What makes you think you are better than myself?” Stonehead asked, turning to face Ellitholm. His dwarves grumbled their assent. Stonehead’s name fit him proper-like, Jarol thought. He would be a good choice.

  “I am elven royalty. There is no more to be said.”

  The chief of the orcs spoke up. “I am a greater warrior than either of you.” Jarol had never spoken to Trobar, the father of Mobar and Qan the queens body guards.

  “You might be stronger—”

  “Maybe,” Stonehead said, interrupting Ellitholm.

  “As I was saying,” Ellitholm said. “You might be stronger, Trobar, but you do not have the capacity to lead a great army. Raiders maybe, army no.”

  Jarol saw Mobar and Qan move for the first time that day. Both their brows creased at the same time. Otherwise, they remained like stone statues behind the queen. How long was Queen Verlainia going to let them squabble? Jarol’s hands were already resting on his sword.

  A goblin in mismatched armor stepped forward. “I should be chosen. The goblins are always first to answer the queen’s call. We are more loyal to her than any of you.”

  “Be silent, Crag,” Ellitholm scoffed. “You are less of a leader than the orc. No elf would follow you. Even your fellow dirt digger Stonehead would brain you with his axe before he ordered a dwarf to follow in any direction you led.”

  That left Raile or himself, and Jarol was keeping his own council. His father would not live to see another winter. The queen had dubbed Jarol’s father the Dragon of the North in his youth, but that mattered little now. A withering disease was taking him, and the once great warrior’s body was wasting away to flesh hanging on bone. His father’s mind remained clear, but watching his own body fade, unable to stop it, was a terrible punishment for a warrior such as him. His father told him before he left to answer the queen’s call that he would one day be as great and inherit the title of Dragon. He wasn’t sure of that, but he would do his best to make his father and his clan proud. He also had things he wanted to do. The winter felt longer with no one warming his furs.