The three elves rode out into what remained of the city of Nachtwald. Much had been destroyed by fire, and the few buildings that remained standing had been mercilessly ransacked by orcs and goblins. More than half of the people who lived there had died in the fighting, but rather than mourn or linger in the ashes nursing their wounds and their losses, the townsfolk and farmers, those that remained, were beginning to rebuild. The signs of their labor were everywhere. The Golden Phial’s miracle had done more than just drive off the orc army—it had touched everyone and, for those who called Nachtwald home, it had been a healing balm that, despite all they may have suffered, helped to assuage their hurts, both physical and mental, and restore their sense of hope.
“Well, I see that you managed to burn down only half of the city.” Loth was freshly scrubbed and dressed in a linen shirt with a lavender tunic and breeches, trimmed in gold. He wore a broad belt about his waist from which his long sword hung in its hand-carved leather sheath. Over this he wore a new jade cloak, much like his old one, fastened at the shoulder with a golden brooch, a griffin etched into its polished surface. He still wore his old weathered boots, however, since none in Baron Cedric’s wardrobe came close to fitting, and he had taken a long bow and a quiver of arrows from the baron’s armory.
“Remind me again,” Blayde turned in her saddle, “who was it that allowed Jankayla to escape and failed to prevent the return of history’s greatest and most terrible dragon?”
Loth grimaced. “I suppose we all have our off days.”
“I miss Ander,” Rayzer said, causing both Loth and Blayde to falter and nearly fall from their saddles.
“What? Now I’ve no one to torture or harass, and you two are just boring.”
They came upon Father Moram and Ren outside the Blessed Church of Aedon. The orcs had tried to burn the church, but the stone building had defied their efforts. The priest had a mule hitched to a small wagon that was laden with bags and boxes, and was in the process of covering it with a tarp. The boy smiled up at them as they approached.
“Good day to you, Father,” Blayde said. “You have the appearance of a man about to begin a journey.”
Father Moram shrugged his shoulders and nodded. “We are leaving Nachtwald. Today. This very hour in fact.”
“But why? Surely, the trouble is past.”
“It’s no longer safe for us here. News of what happened will spread, and there are those who will come seeking the Golden Phial, some for aid, others to exploit him to their own purpose. We cannot remain.”
“But the road isn’t safe either,” Blayde said. “Wouldn’t it be better to stay here?”
“As you know, most believe the Golden Phial to be an object, a chalice or a cup, and the Church of Aedon is happy to reinforce that myth.” He looked down at the boy with a look of amusement in his eyes. “The truth, of course, is that the Golden Phial is a person, and it’s best if he remains hidden.”
“But the people of Nachtwald know the truth,” Loth said. “Isn’t it likely they will tell anyone who comes looking?”
“I doubt many of them will remember clearly what happened. Only a handful actually saw what occurred, and Ren’s magic has a way of altering perceptions. The vast majority still believe in the old stories, and they will prevail, I think, and Baron Cedric will deny Ren’s existence at any rate.”
“He said that?” Blayde raised her eyebrows in surprise.
“Yes. For all his failings, he is a good man. He will at least try to do what is right.” The priest laid a hand on Ren’s shoulder. “Only one Golden Phial is born in a generation, and another will not appear until the old one has passed. The Priests of Aedon are ever vigilant for his return. Now that Ren is here, he is my responsibility and I will do everything in my power to protect him.”
“I imagine he could take care of himself,” Blayde said.
“Ren has powers and abilities far beyond any mere wizard or sorceress. He is a conduit to Enu himself, but only Ren can choose how to use that power and when. He will not use it for personal gain or even to preserve himself. He will only use his gifts to help others. That is what the Golden Phial does.”
The clatter of hooves on the cobblestones made Blayde look up. The Briar Knights, resplendent in fresh white tabards and polished armor, rode toward them on the backs of three meticulously groomed destriers, reining up before the church. Sir Henri saluted the three elves with a gauntleted hand.
“Welcome back,” Sir Henri said, addressing Loth, “we’ve heard tell of your adventures at Arrom’s Rock. I am sorry for the loss of your friend, but even more astounded that the baron’s children did not return.”
“You should never have led them into harm’s way.” Sir Ducar was devoid of his usual friendly demeanor and appeared quite angry.
“If you knew them at all, you would know that Portia and Finn did not follow anyone. It was they who led the way, and Ander and I did all we could to keep them safe from harm. The sorceress was a fierce opponent. We were fools to think we could stop her. Still, it would have been unconscionable not to try.”
“And the dragon?” Sir Henri asked.
“Free and a danger to all of Arkirius. I cannot say where the dragon has gone or what Jankayla’s intentions are, apart from the obvious mayhem and destruction she inflicts wherever she goes, but I have no doubt they will strike again soon.”
“My lords,” Father Moram said, “we should be going. Before anyone else comes along to delay us further.”
“They’re going with you?” Blayde said.
“But of course,” Sir Ducar said. “We are Knights of the Sacred Order of the Briar. It is our duty to protect the weak and the innocent. We were to conduct Lady Portia to her wedding day, but that quest is lost, so we have taken on a new one.”
“Sir Henri and his men have agreed to come with us as an escort, and have pledged their lives to protecting Ren.”
Sir Jon edged his horse forward, turning it so that he and Blayde were facing each other in the road. “You did well enough, woman.” Sir Jon extended a hand.
Blayde hesitated for a moment, but then she smiled and took it, clasping the knight’s forearm in a gesture of brotherhood and friendship.
“Despite anything I might have said to the contrary,” Sir Jon said, “it was an honor to fight at your side.”
“And I at yours,” Blayde said, “but if it’s all the same to you, I hope that we shall never see each other again.”
“Aye.” Sir Jon grinned. “That would be best.”
“Where will you go?” Loth asked Father Moram.
The priest lifted Ren up into the wagon and waited for him to settle, before climbing up himself. “It’s best that you don’t know,” Father Moram snapped the reins and the mule started forward, walking slowly.
The Briar Knights fell into formation with Sir Henri taking the lead, and Sir Jon and Sir Ducar following behind. Together they started down toward the gate. Sir Jon turned in his saddle to look back at them, and raised his hand. “Fare thee well,” he said.
On the seat of the wagon, Ren turned around, on his knees with his hand on the back of the seat, and waved his free hand in the air, a smile on his face, his golden eyes shining. Loth and Blayde waved back.
The three waited, watching as the wagon made its way down the road and out through the open gates, heading south along the old trade road.
“Where do you think they’re headed?” Blayde asked.
“I agree with Father Moram,” Loth said. “It’s probably better that we don’t know.”
“Can we go now?” Rayzer asked.
“I don’t see why not.” Blayde urged her horse forward. “So, shall we ride for Briganthan then?”
“No.” Loth gave her a faint smile. “We’re going to a little village called Willowbrook, southeast of Anhalth.”
“Willowbrook?” Why in Issondenarion’s name would we go there?”
“You’ll see,” Loth said.
Chapter 32
Somewhere to the east of Nachtwald, beyond Arrom’s Rock, in the foothills of the Dragon’s Back Mountains, Pilfer and Retch were digging a hole. It was one of many holes they had dug and they were both feeling immensely tired and irritable.
“Don’t you have a spell for this?” Retch asked for perhaps the hundredth time. The goblin jester was flushed and sweating, his spindly arms quivering with the effort.
“I told you,” Pilfer said, “I’m a battle mage, not a wood elf. I can’t talk to the earth, so just keep digging.”
They had followed Finn’s directions precisely, but somehow, had never come to a spot that looked exactly right. The forests and valleys of eastern Arkirius all looked the same to them. So, they had found what they thought to be the most likely place and there they had started digging. They had no tools for such work and, as Pilfer had repeatedly pointed out, he had no way of creating a hole using magic. Even if he did, there was no way to know what damage such a spell might do to any treasure buried there. So, with much complaining, the two goblins had located a woodcutter’s cottage and liberated the absent human of his shovels and what little food and drink they could find. Pilfer, who was always hungry, had complained endlessly about their lack of appropriate fodder, and Retch had argued that if he weren’t so fat, then he might not be hungry all the time. At this, Pilfer had set Retch’s breeches on fire and Retch had punched Pilfer in the eye.
With Retch clad in a new pair of breeches, likely belonging to one of the woodcutter’s children, and Pilfer carrying their stolen tools, they had returned to the first treasure spot and began digging in earnest. After a day and a half, they had moved on to the east, to another likely spot and had dug a hole there as well. Still, they had found no treasure. Two more spots had been excavated, and now they were on their fifth hole, which they had dug deeper and wider than all the others, only to be disappointed yet again.
“I’m beginning to think there is no treasure,” Pilfer groaned.
“Humans are always lying to us.” Retch threw down his shovel and sat down on the dirt. “After all we did for them, telling them all about the sorceress and leading them to the mountain, at great personal peril I might add.”
“He seemed so nice,” Pilfer said, “such a nice, honest boy. Why would he lie to us?” They looked at each other, silent for a moment, and then Retch picked up a dirt clod and threw it at Pilfer’s head.
“Hey!” Pilfer ducked sideways. “What was that for?”
“For being so stupid and gullible! I’m going to write a sonnet about you and I’m going to call it the stupid, gullible goblin.”
“You’re stupid,” Pilfer said, “and if you don’t stop badgering me, I’m going to turn you into a spotted toad.”
“As if you could.”
A shadow passed over them, a vast darkness that covered the entire sky. With it came a cold, like icy fingers clawing at their backs, and Pilfer and Retch scrambled to the far side of the hole they had dug and clung to each other in fear.
“What was that?” Retch asked, his voice soft as a whisper.
“I don’t know.” Pilfer chewed on his lips. “It could have been—”
“The dragon. She woke the dragon. She said she was going to and she did.”
The two goblins huddled there until the shadow had passed and the sun shone down on them once more. Even then, it took a while before they stopped shaking and the warmth returned to their bones. They slowly climbed out of the hole and stood looking at the mountains, rising up above the trees.
“I want to go home now,” Pilfer said. “I’ve had enough of wars and hidden treasure, and lying, dishonest, ugly humans.”
“And of sorceresses and warlords and mean, filthy orcs.”
“And ogres,” Pilfer added.
“Those, too,” Retch agreed.
With that, they dusted themselves off and slung their small packs onto their backs. Sullenly, and with much muttering and cursing, they began walking toward the mountains.
* * *
The village of Willowbrook was an unassuming place on the southern border of Anhalth, more than 60 leagues southwest of Nachtwald. It was a quiet place, located on a narrow river, surrounded by rich farmland, forested hills, and deep valleys full of deer and wild strawberries. The people of Willowbrook were, for the most part, poor but happy, hard working, and industrious. They loved deeply and lived quiet, uninteresting lives.
The inn at Willowbrook went by the name of the Broken Plow, a low two-story house as old as the village itself, with four rooms above the tavern and a common room at the front, facing a dirt lane that passed through the middle of town.
Portia sat at a table near the window, the satchel with her few belonging at her feet and the collected works of arch mage Kaxigan open in front of her. Her lips moved ever so slightly, her azure eyes dancing swiftly across the page as she devoured the book’s contents. She was dressed in a simple gown of dyed green wool, with a cloak and hood of charcoal gray. The sight of such a lovely creature in a place like the Broken Plow drew a few unscrupulous stares from the locals, but the innkeeper, a veteran of several Anhalthian wars who went by the name William Small, had taken a liking to the young wizard, and was unlikely to let anyone bother his guests at any rate. Most patrons of the Broken Plow knew about the heavy battle-axe the former soldier kept behind the bar and they had a great respect for Bill’s ability to wield it.
Portia looked up as the inn’s front door swung open and Blayde, Rayzer, and Loth, came in from the street. The three elves seemed even more out of place than Portia, especially Loth, who was nearly a head taller than the three other men who sat drinking in the common room.
“Where’s Finn?” Loth said by way of greeting, glancing around the room.
Portia yawned and stretched, causing several grizzled heads to swivel in her direction. She slammed the book shut with a thump.
“Finn has taken it upon himself to fend for our needs or so he says. To that end he has been working hard to hone his rather dubious skills, acquired during his time with Lusive Picket, no doubt. Last I knew he was hanging about the local magistrate’s house. I don’t want to know why, but he should have been back by now.” She scowled at the door, and then took a breath. “How are you, then?”
“Well enough,” Loth said. “This place is a bit out of the way, to be sure.”
“That’s why I picked it. One of the maids I had as a child came from here and complained often about what a lonely, forgotten village it was and how hard it was to get here. Personally, I think it’s quite lovely.”
“Perfect, if one is running away from one’s duties and obligations.”
“Don’t start.” Portia let her gaze drift toward Rayzer and Blayde. “You look splendid.” She admired Blayde’s armor. “You look just like Sir Veryan.”
“I should. It’s his armor and his sword. Well, it was. It’s mine now and I’d say I’ve earned it.”
“News of what happened in Nachtwald is slowly making its way west,” Portia said, “but no one seems to be able to agree on what happened there. Some say the city was destroyed by marauding orcs and goblins; others that Baron Cedric won a great victory and drove the orcs into the mountains. There are rumors that the Golden Phial appeared in Nachtwald, and as everyone knows—”
“The army that holds the cup cannot be defeated,” Blayde said with a hint of irritation. “I’ve heard that one as well.”
“Well,” Portia said, “which is it?”
“Nachtwald survives, but many brave souls died in her defense. Baron Cedric did win a great victory, but, as with most things, he didn’t do it alone.”
“It wasn’t the baron’s victory,” Rayzer said. “I do seem to recall you and I having something to do with that.”
“He’s alive, then?” Portia asked.
“Aye,” Loth said, “and fierce as ever he was.”
“Father Moram. I knew he would not let him die, despite all of my father’s protestations about the evils of magic. How did he take the
news?”
“As well as can be expected,” Loth said. “I think he blames me for most of it, for dragging you and Finn into this business in the first place and for everything that followed.”
“It’s better this way.”
“He will, no doubt, send men to Arrom’s Rock to search for you; for your bodies that is. I told them there was nothing to find, but he is a stubborn man and will have to learn the truth for himself.”
“He’ll be fine. He hardly noticed we were there in the first place. And when he thought of us at all, he thought only of how to make the best use of us. He’ll find some other way to make peace with Anhalth, and Baron Guthmundus will find some other bride for his wretched son.”
“There’s still the small matter of the dragon,” Loth said. “Ashendraugnir is still out there in the world, and gods only know what he and Jankayla will do next.”
“What was it?” Portia asked. “That spell you used. I’ve never seen its like.”
“It’s called the Winds of Prathos. My father taught it to me long ago. It’s come in handy more than once—”
“It’s the only spell he knows,” Blayde said.
“I know other spells,” Loth said, irritably, “In fact I—”
“Where is Ashendraugnir?” Portia said. “I’ve heard no news of the dragon since we arrived, no stories at all. A dragon can’t simply disappear.”
“Or can they?” Blayde asked. “Dragons are magical beasts or so the old stories say. Whatever the truth is, the beast seems to have gone to ground somewhere.”
“Gone underground is more like,” Rayzer added.
“Jankayla resurrected Ashendraugnir for some purpose of her own,” Loth said. “Sooner or later they will reappear and when they do, more people will die.”
“Ander pierced the dragon’s heart with a spear.” Portia frowned. “Why did it not die? The wound did not seem to affect it at all.”
“I don’t know,” Loth said. “Jankayla summoned the dragon back from Tironed-dum, from the lands of the dead. Who knows what powers it might now possess? Perhaps Ashendraugnir has gained immortality. An immortal dragon in the service of the dark elves’ most powerful sorceress—I can’t imagine anything worse.”
A Way with Magic (The Draakonor Chronicles Book 1) Page 39
