“No, he’s a priest,” said the first voice. “What a lucky chance this is. The fates smile on us this night, for I have an important use for him.”
***
“What do you make of it?” said Claradon, as the men gathered where Glimador had led them.
“It is blood, no doubt, but whether that of man or beast I cannot be certain,” said Ob. “A horse fell here—of that I have no doubt. It landed partly within the circle and partly without, though whatever impression it left on the inside has been blotted out. A man lay beside it. There was some thrashing about, and the horse was dragged back within the circle. There are no prints visible of whoever did the dragging.
“What of the man?” said Claradon. “Is there any way to tell who it was?”
Ob studied the ground for some time. “I think he ran for it,” said Ob, his voice brightening. “He may have got clear.”
“Let's follow,” said Claradon. They all turned to follow the meager trail that only Ob seemed able to see. Theta stood nearly fifty yards away, just where the trees started to grow thick and he was staring down at the ground. The others rushed over.
“Did you find something?” said Claradon to Theta.
“Tracks.”
“Move aside, Mr. Fancy Pants,” said Ob. “I need to have a gander.”
“Two large men dragged another to a wagon back there,” said Theta. “They took him. The tracks head south.”
“Toward Lomion City,” said Claradon.
“You are daft, man,” said Ob. “These are Eotrus lands, no one gets taken by nobody around here.”
“Must have been the cultists,” said Tanch as he looked all around. “They could be watching us even now, waiting to pick us off one by one when we’re unaware. Oh, dear.”
“Dagnabbit, he’s right,” said Ob as he stared down at the tracks. “They took him. They dragged him off. Stinking cultists. Let me see them wagon tracks.”
They all followed.
“The wagon was a big one,” said Ob, “and heavily laden with something or other, because it sunk deep into the sod. They must be dumb as rocks to take a wagon in here. Nobody like that could've outsmarted Aradon.”
“Maybe them folks with the wagon needed some stones, so they hauled the ruins away,” said Dolan.”
“Maybe it wasn’t the cultists that took our man,” said Claradon. “Maybe some passersby stopped to help him.”
“There was a struggle for certain,” said Ob. “They took him. I’m sorry boy, but I can't tell who it was by the tracks. The boots are large, but a lot of the men on your father's patrol got big boots.”
“There were eight to ten horses with the wagon,” said Theta.
“What do we do?” said Claradon, looking to Gabriel.
“We have three choices,” said Gabriel. “Stay here the night as planned to see what the fog brings; or leave now and follow the tracks to rescue our man and deal with those who took him; or split our force to do both.”
“Ten horses and a wagon,” said Ob, shaking his head. “There could be 15 of them scum all told, maybe even more if they’re piled high and deep in the wagon. We would need to send half our force to deal with them hard and fast. That don’t leave us near enough to deal with whoever battled our patrol, assuming it wasn’t them with the wagon.”
“I’ll go,” said Sir Bareddal. “Give me four men only. I’ll track the wagon, but keep my distance, and I’ll send back reports of what we see.”
“We can catch up to Bareddal tomorrow evening or the next day at the latest, if things work out well here tonight,” said Claradon.
“It’s settled then,” said Gabriel.
“What if its Lord Eotrus that they kidnapped?” said Bareddal. “Do I move in to free him if I see the chance or do I wait for you?”
“It is not him that they have,” said Theta. “Unless your lord wields powerful magics.”
“How do you know who they got?” said Ob. “Explain yourself.”
“The man that fell at the rim threw powerful magics—that spot reeks of it,” said Theta.
“How do you know that?” said Ob.
“I have my ways and they’re none of your concern.”
“What?” said Ob. “Who do you think you are, talking to me like that? This is Eotrus land, Mr. Stinking Foreigner, and you will explain yourself good and proper or I’ll be knocking you on your behind and beating the answers out of you.” Ob marched toward Theta, fists clenched and fight in his eyes. Gabriel grabbed Ob by the collar and stopped him in his tracks.
“If Lord Theta says the captured man used magic,” said Gabriel. “Then you can be certain that he did. Leave it at that.”
Ob's face was beet red. He narrowed his eyes and glared at Theta and Gabriel both.
“That means the kidnapped man was Par Talbon or one of his apprentices,” said Claradon.
“Or Donnelin,” said Gabriel as he turned to Bareddal.
“Pick your men and head out forthwith. Go light and go quick, but most of all, go quiet. Do not let them detect you.”
“Aye. You can count on me.”
XIII
MISTER KNOW-IT-ALL
Claradon, Ob, Dolan, Artol, Par Tanch, and Glimador sat around a campfire over which was hung a good-sized cook pot that Artol attended to. Groups of five to ten men sat around similar fires nearby, all positioned close to the circle of desolation.
“We’re a bunch of idiots to be sitting around a fire when there are enemies in the wood,” said Ob. “The fires foul our night vision and give away our position and numbers to anyone within a league what ain’t blind. Half our men got their backs to the woods and their guards down. The stinking cultists are liable to skulk out of the underbrush and stab half of us all good and proper, our hot dinners spilling out holes in our guts, before we know what's what. What we should have done was lie here in the dark, all quiet as we can be, and wait on them to show their faces. Then it would be them what gets jumped, not us. But no, old Mr. Fancy Pants says—Artol, what did he say exactly?”
“The danger won't be coming from the wood,” said Artol, doing an exaggerated and stilted impression of Theta. “It will come from the circle.”
“Come from the circle, he says,” said Ob. “Conjured up from the beyond, I guess that means. Insanity, I tell you, but Gabe went along with it. I never seen him take on a stupid idea before, but Mr. Know-it-All comes along and everything changes. What is that about? Can anyone tell me?”
“I don't understand it,” said Artol. “Gabe has never taken advice from anybody in all the years I've known him. Even Aradon doesn’t bother to try.”
“Sir Gabriel positioned ten guards in the woods,” said Claradon. “We’re well protected.”
“Not well enough,” said Ob, as he took a draught from his wineskin. “Not near as well as we could be, and there is no good reason for it. Reckless and stupid, I say.”
“But we needed to set a civilized camp,” said Tanch. “The men need rest—maybe even to grab a few hours sleep before the fog comes, assuming that it comes, and assuming any of us could sleep knowing what's coming, not that we know, but you know what I mean. And all of us needed a hot meal—you can’t begrudge us that, can you? It is only soup after all.”
“Yeah, only soup,” said Ob. “Just don’t eat too much—it will slow you down and unsettle your stomach. You don’t want that going into battle. But I bet if Mr. Fancy Pants had his way, we would all be roasting chestnuts and singing cheery songs. Then when the cultists happen by, he would have us ask them to dance a bit and share our suppers.”
“Alright, Ob. Enough,” said Claradon.
Ob grumbled a bit and then turned his attention back to his jerky.
“Mr. Claradon,” said Dolan, “Mr. Ob is right about eating too much, but it's just as bad to eat too little. It's still a few hours until we expect the fog. Best to keep up your strength, it is. You should try to choke down a bit more than just bread.”
“I can barely manage the bread.
I chew it and chew it, but without the water I can’t get it down.”
“Nerves is normal, boy,” said Ob as he chewed on a piece of jerky. “I'm worried about your father too, but we need to be at our best when we face whatever is to come.”
“I know. You're right. I'm just afraid if I eat more, I'll end up spewing it back up.”
“Spew on them Nifleheimers,” said Dolan. “That will teach them, it will.”
The men shared a chuckle.
“Claradon, me boy, I have known your father all his life, and his father afore him. He is as tough as nails, and a right fine swordsman—one of the best. He'll be alright, I'm sure.”
“I wish I could believe that, I’m trying to,” said Claradon. “It just doesn’t look good.”
“You need to understand that he and his guard aren’t no common soldiers,” said Ob. “You’ve known them all your life, but you haven’t seen them in action in the field, or out in the wild, or at war. I’m not talking the small skirmishes against bandits and such that you’ve been part of. I’m talking the real deal—blood and gore. Death on a scale to make your heart break and your courage shrivel to nothing.
“Your father, Talbon, Stern, Donnelin, and half the knights and soldiers on that patrol are veterans of Karthune Gorge—one of the bloodiest battles of our age. We Eotrus stood that line. They came at us all day and half the night, no respite or reprieve. Bodies piled as high as a horse around us, and still we didn’t yield. We didn’t break. We stood tall and laid them low, though the price was sore and steep. Gabe was there, and Artol, and me too.
“And all of us fought the lugron out East in the mountains—that campaign lasted near two years and cost us half our number, good friends and family amongst the fallen.
“And we was the ones what repelled them things that came out of the White Wood years back. It wasn't the Lomerian regulars like the stories say, and it sure wasn’t the stinking Chancellor’s men. It was us, the Eotrus. Your father led us on those campaigns and dozens more throughout the northlands and beyond.
“You haven’t even heard half the stories—nowhere near half. You and your brothers were too young; we couldn’t tell you of such things. The things we did for our country, for our king, to keep our people safe. But we always did the right thing—never forget that, not ever. Your father and Gabe made sure of that. We kept our honor clean.
“I’ve been with him through it all and I can tell you that near every man on that patrol is as good as five of Lomion City’s best and that ain’t no exaggeration. And that ain’t the half of it. Talbon has got powers beyond anything you’ve seen or even dreamed about. You know I don’t put no stock in magic, but he’s the real deal—not no hedge wizard like your boy Tanch, no offense. Talbon can put down a battalion by his lonesome if you get his hackles up. When it comes to it, Donnelin isn’t too far behind him. Sword to sword, Stern can even stand against Gabe for a time, when he puts his mind to it. There’s not much in this world that can best that group in battle. So keep up your spirits for we may yet find them hereabouts, all good and proper and ready to head home with us. We have to believe that. That's all we can do for now.”
Claradon nodded in response as he looked over toward the edge of the circle. “I want to know everything; to hear all those stories.”
“It will take more than a few sittings to tell it all,” said Ob. “We can start just as soon as we find your father and get our behinds home.”
“You and father should have told me these things before,” said Claradon. “I’m no child and haven’t been for goodly years.”
Ob acknowledged Claradon’s words with a nod, and then his eyes drifted to the fire.
Dolan pulled out a piece of wax and placed it in a metal cup beside the fire.
“You didn’t use the wax back at the Dor,” said Ob. “Thought you was deaf.”
“The noise didn’t bother me so much back there,” said Dolan. “We're a lot closer now, we are. Lord Angle says it’s best to be prepared, so I’m preparing.”
“You always do what he says?” said Ob.
“If I didn’t, I would have been killed dead long ago,” said Dolan. “He’s not often wrong.”
“Huh, well, getting that wax ready is smart,” said Ob. “Smarter than some of our boys are being. A good half a dozen won’t use it, I’m certain, orders or not. Stubborn they are. Stinking blockheads.”
“Sir Miden was saying the wax made him dizzy and gave him a headache,” said Tanch.
“Better dizzy than deaf,” said Ob, “as any fool can tell.”
“Such a little thing—putting wax in our ears,” said Claradon. “Strange to think that it could turn the tide of a battle, or make the difference between life and death.”
“It's often the littlest things that make the most difference,” said Ob.
“Lord Angle says that survival is the art of being prepared,” said Dolan. “So I expect that he’s more prepared than anybody, he is.”
Claradon continued to stare off into the distance and said nothing for a time.
“What are you looking at?” Ob turned around to see. Gabriel and Theta stood the watch together at the circle’s rim.
“They’ve been standing there a long time,” said Claradon. “I was wondering what they're talking about. Lord Theta doesn't say much, but has much to say. Dolan—is he always like that?”
“Mostly,” said Dolan as he pulled some carefully packaged salted pork from his pack. “They also say he's an enigma. I don't rightly know what that means, but they don't say it to his face, so it must be something bad, it must.”
“There's worse things to be, I expect,” said Ob as he too fixed his gaze on Theta. “That's some suit of armor your boss has, sonny,” he said. “Why, it's as fancy as the ceremonial armor of old King Tenzivel himself.”
“It should be. I keep it polished and bang out all the dents, I do. There always seems to be more dents.”
“Hmm. It sure is mighty pretty, but I'm a wondering if it can stand up to cold hard steel, or beasties' claws. Myself, I wouldn't wear no fairy armor like that in any case. No offense.”
“None taken,” said Dolan as he finished off a piece of pork. “But I wouldn't say that to Lord Angle, if I were you. He has a high opinion of it, as he made it himself way back when, he did.”
“I’m doubting he forged his own armor,” said Ob. “To forge that fancy suit would take a skill maybe only three or four smiths in all of Lomion possess and we have the best smiths in Midgaard no matter what the dwarves say. There’s no way some dandy knight has that kind of skill. Besides, what lord makes his own armor?”
“Heimdall made his own and he’s a god,” said Dolan. “But if you think Lord Angle’s armor is fancy, you should see his castle—what with the weapon and trophy collections, the paintings, and all those old wines. It would take a hundred years to drink all them bottles. A sight to see, it is.”
“Has his own castle does he?” said Ob. “He must be some important fellow over there across the sea where you hail from.”
“That he is. He's a brave hero, he is,” said Dolan matter-of-factly.
“You don't say,” said Ob. “Now sonny, tell us—just what has that fellow done that makes him a hero? Does he help old ladies cross the street? Or does he just tell folks he’s a hero enough times until they start to believe it?”
Dolan narrowed his eyes. “He’s a real hero, Mr. Ob, he is. The kind that slays dragons, giants, monsters, and such. Saved the world—all of Midgaard—several times since I've been with him. They say he even fought the old gods back in olden days, but I wasn't around then.”
“Ho, ho. So you are a teller of tales, Dolan me boy,” said Ob, chuckling. “Killing dragons, fighting gods, ho ho. I bet them's some goodly yarns to pass a cold night on the trail.”
Dolan furrowed his brow and shook his head as he stared at another piece of pork.
“He seems a man of courage and strength,” said Claradon.
“He's stronger t
han any man I've ever seen,” said Dolan. “There was that time that—”
“Bah,” said Ob. “My boy Gabriel there,” gesturing toward him, “smashes beasties afore breakfast. He be a true hero, not some fancy-dressed dandy wearing a tin can and having a pole up his behind. He got his reputation on the battlefield, not in some children's tales.”
“That's true enough,” said Claradon, as he looked toward Dolan. “Sir Gabriel served as the Preceptor of the Order of the Knights of Tyr for several years before he took up service with my father.”
“Them’s one of the toughest outfits of knights in all Midgaard,” said Ob, “and Gabe was the best of them.”
“Many consider him the finest swordsman and weapons master in all Lomion,” said Claradon.
“And the only ones what don't think Gabe is the best is dumb or dead or both,” said Ob. “Tell him about the dragon. The short version, we’ll save the whole tale for when we’ve more time.”
“More than twenty years ago,” said Claradon, “Sir Gabriel slew the old fire wyrm that plagued the villages of the Kronar Mountains.”
“Plagued them?” said Ob, his voice growing sharper. “It took at least one of their folk each month and some of their livestock nearly every day for years—years. They couldn’t stop it, no matter what they tried. Even a battalion of Lomerian Regulars that ole King Tenzivel sent up there couldn’t take it down. Half of them ended up dead, the rest ran for it, the cowards.”
“But Gabe smote it good,” said Ob. “Can you imagine that—a man killing a fire wyrm—a full grown one, a hundred feet long or more, teeth the size of spears. A mouth what spits acid and breathes fire out 50 yards or more. A body wide around as a mammoth. And Gabe killed it—on his lonesome.”
“Hey—I was there,” said Artol. “And I still have a scar or two to remember it.”
“Me too, but we didn’t do much,” said Ob. “It takes an army to bring one of them things down. An army—and Gabe did it practically alone: sword and muscle against a monster. That's what a hero is boys. That’s what courage is and true mettle. And as for strong, just look at him,” he said, pointing toward Gabriel. “He could squash that Mister Foreign Fancy Pants like a bug.”
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