The Third Sign

by Scott D. Muller

  “I could use a nice cool ale about now,” he grinned.

  “A hot meal would be nice too,” Sheila agreed.

  “Stew?”

  “Stew’s good at the Boar’s Head Inn,” Sheila added.

  Sheila thought back to the last time she was in Toulereau. The Inn had been pleasant. Her mother liked it. Said it took her back, memories. She never did elaborate. She thought the common room was nice enough, always full of local folks, bards, busty maidens. Dra’kor will like that, she thought to herself. Probably been a long time since he’s seen a tavern maid.

  “Good place to stay then?” Dra’kor asked.

  “Good as any. Clean. Reasonable,” Sheila shrugged.

  “How much time we get to celebrate depends on what we find, I suppose.”

  Sheila scrunched her forehead, “Meaning?”

  “We may well be ... busy. That’s all,” Dra’kor answered quietly.

  “Busy? As in?” Sheila asked, not following his meaning.

  “As in fighting!’ Dra’kor said, more sharply than he wanted.

  “Fighting? You really think there might be trouble?” a surprised Sheila asked. “Surely we would have heard something if that be the case.”

  Dra’kor’s lower-lip quivered as he scowled deeply, “Where magic is concerned ...”

  Sheila frowned. “I suppose, but there are plenty of soldiers there. The King’s best!”

  Dra’kor listened as he chewed. He closed his water bag, replacing it over his shoulder, “That may be so, but Brag thought it was unusual for the town not to hear from the brigade in such a long time. True?”

  “True enough I suppose,” Sheila echoed. “They’re usually prompt about reporting back, the commander demands it, but then again ... they could very well have their hands full chasing the beasts out of the realm.”

  “Commander’s a strict man?” Dra’kor asked, tilting his head to one side.

  Sheila pondered a moment. “Stricter than most I’d guess, but he’s competent and fair. Good man for the job I’d say.”

  Dra’kor narrowed his eyes. “So it’s unlikely he forgot to report back?”

  “Unlikely, but possible I suppose.”

  They stood in silence for a moment.

  “But no word for a full cycle of the moon?” Dra’kor asked, biting off another chunk. “That doesn’t seem right to me.”

  Sheila lowered her gaze, “No, it doesn’t, but who’s to say! You understand soldiering?”

  Dra’kor shook his head, “Really don’t.”

  “Me neither,” Sheila guffawed. “Don’t understand soldiers either!”

  Dra’kor rolled his eyes as she slapped her knee.

  Sheila grinned widely, shrugged and changed the subject, “If we decide to go, I’ll need to send word to mom. She’ll be concerned if we don’t make it back tonight.”

  Dra’kor teased, “She’ll worry about you?”

  Sheila laughed, “Me? Why no, of course not. She’ll be a worrying about you.”

  “Me?” Dra’kor said, a trifle aghast.

  “Of course you, you’re the mage that ain’t a mage. She’ll have my skin if I get you killed or lost.”

  Dra’kor grunted, spitting defiantly. “So you all keep reminding me.”

  “I’m just saying ...” she said, cajoling him. “Mom would be furious if I didn’t take good care of you.”

  “Of course,” Dra’kor gestured foully.

  Sheila snorted, “I love you too!”

  “I guess I should let mom know then?” Sheila stated, more than asked.

  “Sure, let her know that I’ll be safe in your hands,” Dra’kor said bitterly, while he aggressively tore off another big chunk of bread.

  Sheila rolled her eyes. Dra’kor was so sensitive. “I’ll let her know we’ll be spending the night.”

  “How do propose to do that,” Dra’kor mocked her, waving his hands mysteriously. “Some kind of ancient elf sending spell?”

  Sheila smiled and winked, “Sure!”

  He hated when she did that.

  She put her hands to her lips and made a shrill whistle. Soon a magnificent red-tailed hawk swooped in under the canopy and landed gracefully on her extended arm. Even with the leathers, the bird’s razor sharp talons pierced her skin and made her wince.

  Dra’kor stood watching, trying to figure out what she was up to, half expecting her to write a note or something for the bird to carry.

  Sheila cooed to the bird and squawked, as the hawk bobbed and wove its head side to side. When she finished she stroked the bird’s chest feathers and tossed up her arm letting the bird take to the air. It beat its wings rapidly, weaving gracefully between the tall trees until it disappeared above the thick greenery. Dra’kor stood in amazement. Sometimes the things she knew caught him completely by surprise.

  Sheila looked up at Dra’kor standing there with his jaw open. She smirked, “Ancient Elf magic ...”

  “Right,” he said, placing his hands on his hips.

  “Too hard to explain,” Sheila said flatly, with a serious look on her face.

  “No doubt,” Dra’kor said sarcastically, lifting his knapsack and slinging it over his shoulder. “Want to try?”

  “Maybe later?” she snorted softly. “When we have a lot of free time.”

  Dra’kor shook his head regaining his composure, “I guess we’re going then?”

  Sheila smirked, “I guess we can go.”

  “Lead on, Queen of the Underbrush!” Dra’kor bade, with the sweep of his broadsword, and as quick as he uttered the request, and without a word, Sheila sprinted off into the thicket leaving Dra’kor behind.

  He shook his head, chuckled, shoved his broadsword into his capellium and started running loudly after her, his blade and loose fitting clothes getting caught by twigs, briars and the underbrush. He wished he had some nice smooth leathers and swore that he would make himself a set out of the next big wolven they killed ... and a nice leather sheath for his blade that would sit across his back.

  Dra’kor was used to living in the mountains with clear unobstructed vistas. He had always counted on them for direction, and now, in the deep forest, he was lost. He had lost his sense of direction long ago and had no idea whether they traveled east or west. He caught a glimpse of tree-covered hills every now and then through a break in the forest, but they all looked the same. They were all rounded, capped with dense evergreens and hardwoods. They followed no stream, they didn’t follow the valleys, and it appeared to him they were aimlessly crossing hills. He was totally lost, so he blindly followed Sheila who seemed to know exactly where she was at all times. It was downright irritating.

  She stopped every so often and stared up into the canopy and then sped off, making seemingly insignificant corrections in their direction as they ventured ever farther away from Three Rivers. Occasionally they would cross a game trail or a narrow path and she would nod to herself.

  “Are you sure you know the way,” he grunted, running after her, pulling his knapsack free of a thorny bush.

  She gave him one of those looks over her shoulder and picked up the pace. Dra’kor groaned and tried to make his legs go faster. When would he learn not to ask those kinds of questions, he thought to himself. Never! He smirked.

  “Save a place for me at the Inn,” he yelled out to no effect. Sheila was already out of sight.

  The next time she stopped, she waited for Dra’kor. Dra’kor didn’t know for sure where she was, so he kept going in the same direction. He finally spotted her a couple hundred paces bearing to the right of where he was aiming. He finished the last few paces up the hill and stopped.

  Dra’kor asked, “Why do you always look up into the trees when we stop?”

  She looked at him oddly, and then grinned widely, “They tell me which way to go, of course.”

  Dra’kor didn’t know how to respond. Sheila was waiting for him to say something, and he had absolutely nothing to say, so he just stood there, looking like a dope. Sh
e waited a little longer. There was an awkward silence right before she took off, running in a slightly different direction.

  They had been running on and off for nearly two hours and over the past minutes, generally following a stream, or one of its tributaries, when they broke into a clearing. Sheila pointed into the distance at a great multi-towered castle peaking out high above the mature elm trees.

  “Toulereau!” she stated while motioning up the hill. “Well, what do you think?”

  Dra’kor looked up and got his first look at a real castle, the multiple large blue gray turrets reaching up to the sky. He‘d wager they were close to thirty arm-spans high. The heavily stoned battlements and bastions looked formidable even at this distance, stretching off into the distance high above the trees. Dra’kor shook his head in awe and whistled while shielding his eyes for a better look.

  He stood with his mouth agape staring, “Huh? What did you say?”

  Sheila laughed, “Most people have that reaction first time they see the place.”

  Dra’kor turned red while Sheila belly laughed.

  He squinted trying to take measure of the walls. The merlons looked as tall as a man and nearly as wide. The walls had to be close to sixty feet tall by his estimation. There were multitudes of embrasures for archers to use in defense of the castle. The barbican, adjacent to the gateways was just barely visible and surely, by the size of it peaking over the trees, it must be covering a gateway of immense proportion, maybe two or even three wagons wide, plenty wide enough to march a full army through, in formation, twelve across, arms in display.

  “You going to stand there all day gawking?” Sheila asked, with a simper on her face. “The view is better up ahead.”

  Dra’kor shot her a look, “You’re always in a rush ...”

  Sheila pointed at the sun, which had already moved far past the zenith, “Daylight! Nightfall! Beasts. You know, things like that seem important given the troubles.”

  “Still.”

  Dra’kor hated it, but he had to agree and he begrudgingly set off back into the thicket.

  They slowed their pace as the castle loomed in the distance and they were close enough to not have to bushwhack anymore. They crossed plowed fields, separated by clumps of tall trees.

  Dra’kor watched a dirt devil race across the unplanted surrounding field. Under normal circumstances, Dra’kor would have expected the fields to be heavy with barley and sorghum but these were almost barren, a testimony to the magical taint that had fouled the land. Dra’kor kicked at the dirt, which by all appearances seemed fertile. He could feel the magic tingling weakly on the bottom of his feet.

  “It seems too quiet, where is everybody?” he asked, looking at the deserted plow and yoke, both resting at the edge of the field next to a wagon with a broken wheel. The wagon’s rear axle had been set on blocks, large crosscut stumps of pine and was waiting for someone to repack the hub and install the new wheel that leaned against the rear gate. The gate was dangling loosely on worn leather hinges and was swinging gently in the breeze. The wagon was filled with straw colored baskets, rusty hoes and rakes. A team of oxen was tethered to the fence at the north end and were paying them no never mind as they contently fed on the grass and weeds under the giant shady tree next to the yoke.

  Sheila shrugged.

  “I don’t like this,” Dra’kor commented. “It doesn’t feel right.

  Sheila shook her head, “Never seen it this quiet, not the few times I’ve been here. Of course with no crops growing ...”

  “I noticed that right quick! They’re having trouble with the same malady that affects Three Rivers,” Dra’kor said pointing at the rows of barren dirt.

  “Maybe you can help them before we leave ...” Shelia mumbled.

  “That’s a lot of herbed water to make under pretense. Not sure I could manage enough for all the fields,” Dra’kor said, looking to Sheila who was paying him no mind. “I think I’ll just counter the spell and let nature takes its course.”

  Dra’kor bent down, placed his hands on the ground, and began to softly chant. His hands glowed slightly as the magic was released into the earth. He fed as much as he dared, figuring that he could probably treat more fields later in the twilight.

  Sheila was starting to feel uneasy, her elf senses had already detected that something was not right, and her head was jumping from side to side, her eyes looked for threats. Usually she could identify what was setting off her powers, but not this time. It seemed that they were surrounded by ....

  What?” Dra’kor asked, noticing her uneasiness.

  She drew her sword to the ready and snapped around. Dra’kor looked at her, mystified.

  Sheila blurted, “Just in case ...”

  “In case?”

  “Just believe me. Something is wrong.”

  He shrugged and did the same, pulling his sword from its sheath. He gripped the hilt tightly. The cold steel felt surprisingly reassuring to him. They took a few more strides up the road and were soon less than a quarter league from the gatehouse. They could clearly see the full measure of the castle and still, not a soul could be seen.

  They made their way past the last fields and then stepped back into the thick underbrush to traverse another steep hill. They found the road, which wove its way to the base of the gatehouse, about a third of the way around the hill, and they stepped into the open. Sheila didn’t like being this exposed.

  The road was narrow, deeply rutted and barely wide enough for wagons to pass. The circuitous path of the road was intentional, to prevent a direct attack on the castle. It would be hard to maneuver, catapults, trebuchets and rams on a road this curved.

  Dra’kor looked up and down the road, seeing little other than trees, dirt and rock. He didn’t see squirrels, nor mice, not even a bird.

  Dra’kor’s eyes were wide. He had not expected the castle to be this sprawling. It towered before them and was indeed at least thrice the size of the Wizards Keep. It was even bigger than his father’s, where he had spent his youth. This was more than just a castle complete with fortifications, it was a town. He couldn’t wait to get a look inside.

  He marveled at its immense grandeur and wondered how they had built such a grand structure without the use of magic. Given how long it was rumored to have taken to construct the Wizards Keep, he couldn’t fathom how such a task could be undertaken in the short lifetimes of men. He wasn’t paying attention to his feet and tripped over a half buried stone, landing hard on packed clay.

  “By the Ten,” he grunted, throwing his hands up to protect his face.

  He stood quickly and brushed himself off, but not before Sheila noticed and gave him a foul look.

  They passed the stone batten angled up from the ground to the walls at an angle steep enough to prevent any from gaining access to the wall. Even a tall ladder would not be able to reach. The stones were fit so well, that even a knife’s edge couldn’t fit between them.

  Dra’kor was the first to notice a couple buzzards circling high above and pointed them out to Sheila.

  “That doesn’t bode well,” she mumbled, although it was fairly common to find the ugly scavengers circling the castle. They never lasted long, the archers routinely used them for target practice.

  “Maybe they’re interested in all the dead wolven,” he said, pointing out the rows of decapitated heads standing tall on steel pikes along the edge of the road in the distance.

  Sheila scowled, “Even buzzards aren’t stupid enough to want to eat those ...” She covered her nose with her sleeve to soften the foul stench of the rotting beasts, stewing in the hot sun.

  “What’s that sound?” Dra’kor asked, turning his ear to the wind.

  “What?” Sheila asked, shifting her head. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Wait ...” Dra’kor said, turning his head, searching for the faint sound. “There it is again.”

  “So it is,” Sheila agreed, turning her head into the wind. “Sounds a little like their warni
ng bell, maybe the church bell. The warning bell isn’t that soft. You can hear it for almost a half league, more on a still day.”

  “Wind?” Dra’kor queried.

  “Not likely, but the breeze could be significantly stronger up top of the turret.”

  Dra’kor knew the truth of that. He had almost gotten blown off of one of the Keep’s turrets when he was younger. He and Men’ak had been playing a game of stones in a turret balcony when a strong gust of wind caught his cloak, sucking him over the edge. Only Men’ak’s quick reaction had prevented him going over the edge. That, along with a good knot on his cape at his throat. He remembered Men’ak’s face white with fear, hanging on to his cloak with a white knuckled hand. He had braced his feet hard against the iron railing, and used his other to wrap around the red brocade curtain that had been blown out the window by the same gust. Sure, they laughed it off, him dangling there, helpless, and choking. However, he had been severely traumatized. To this day, he still had problems with heights.

  “You think something is going on?” Dra’kor asked, as the hair on the back of his neck stood. He stared up, hand shielding his eyes, trying to catch a glimpse of whoever was ringing the bell high above in the tallest turret. Nobody was visible and yet Dra’kor could see the bell swinging slightly. Sheila followed his gaze.

  “I can’t tell either, but something doesn’t seem right to me,” Sheila grumbled softly, leaning toward Dra’kor’s ear. “Wait here until I signal, I’m going to scout the road. You follow after I give you an indication.”

  Dra’kor nodded unconsciously, his focus still on the bell. She looked at him, frowned and then dashed off before he turned her way. He stood still in the middle of the road; sword at his side watching Sheila slink ahead, keeping her body low and her stance wide and stable. Dra’kor admired the ripple of her muscles through the thin leather leggings as she made her way along the road.

  Sheila easily ran along the edge of the road, just off the embankment, her gate even and smooth. She was using the rocks, brush and trees at the side for cover. Her sword was out in front, as she scanned for threats. She moved with a natural grace and was soon a couple hundred paces ahead. She set down a knee and motioned for Dra’kor to follow, all the while scanning uphill.