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That is odd,
Loric thought. He raised his head to croak the question that raced to the forefront of his mind. “Why are we running?”

A shout of warning came from a voice Loric knew belonged to Warnyck. Barag buckled his knees and ducked his head. An arrow zipped past Loric’s ear, struck a jutting boulder beside him and shattered amidst chips of rock its point sent flying in all directions. Loric had expected a different response than the one he received, but it informed him that enemies were chasing him and his companions.

“That would be the Landolstadters’ way.... of saying,
Hello, Loric. We are here.... to
complete the task.... that your friends did not.... let our man with the flail.... finish,
” Warnyck panted, as he jogged along beside Marblin and Barag.

Loric tried to clear his head. He needed to shake cobwebs loose, so Barag could put him down and let him carry his own weight. The big man beneath him puffed, “I.... must rest....

soon.” He heaved several more short breaths and added, “I.... cannot.... keep.... this pace.... much longer.”

“Let me lighten your load,” Loric suggested.

Barag came to an abrupt halt and plopped his fellow townsman feet first on the ground before Warnyck or Marblin could voice protests against the idea. Loric wobbled precariously close to falling, but the scout and the Moonwatcher reached out with steadying hands.

Meanwhile, Barag planted a meaty palm on each knee and gasped for air that sounded painfully drawn.

Loric’s ears went cottony the instant he was standing upright and the voice of the river nearby was muted to him. The world was on a separate axis from his mind. A nauseating surge tortured his belly. Loric closed his eyes to keep from vomiting.... too late. His diaphragm convulsed violently, painfully.

After Loric expelled the contents of his stomach, Warnyck and Marblin both hesitated to make sure he was done vomiting. Then each ducked a head under the arm nearest them. The scout delivered a forceful prod to Barag’s back and said, “We have to go, friend of Loric.”

“Understood,” the big brute acknowledged with a tight grin. As he started forward again, he grumbled at Warnyck, “My name is Barag.”

“We must find a place to hide,
friend of Loric!”
Warnyck said curtly, emphasizing his chosen title for the volunteer of Landolstadt. “You need me to remember that you are a fellow townsman to my friend, else I might forget that you are not our foe and prisoner.”

Barag drew himself up to challenge the scout, but Marblin growled impatiently, “Keep

moving! I hear footsteps behind us. They are close at hand.”

“You three go ahead,” Barag told them. He thumbed toward their unwanted followers and said, “I will see them off.” Without waiting for their approval, Barag strode stiffly past Warnyck.

“How can we trust you?” the scout demanded.

Barag promptly informed him, “You have no other option. Neither of you runt-lings can carry Loric without the help of the other, and if I am against you, I and my fellow Landolstadters outnumber you by far.”

“In that case, you would still be the first to die,” Warnyck assured him. “Nevertheless, I will trust you, as the friend of my friend, until you give me a reason not to.”

The scout did not await a rebuttal. He simply kept walking, ever and anon casting a wary glance over his shoulder. Neither he nor Marblin, nor sickly Loric was prepared for what Barag did next.

The big brute drew his sword and laid a light slash along his right arm. Warnyck offered a discerning nod, but Barag’s behavior utterly confused Loric. Marblin voiced his question for him, asking, “Have you lost your wits?”

Barag said nothing. He simply waved his fleeing companions along and moved back the

way they had come.

Warnyck ducked his braided head out from beneath Loric’s arm and jerked it away from

their pursuers, as a signal to Marblin to help the Knight of Shimmermir and Taeglin away from the action. He strung his bow and knocked one of his handcrafted arrows into place as he slunk into the cover of brush and boulders along Barag’s left flank. Marblin made to carry Loric forward, but Loric stopped him. “We will make our stand here,” he said. His stomach wrenched, as if to cast itself out of his mouth. It was already empty. Loric spat bile.

“Lord, you are not well,” Marblin pleaded with him. “We-”

Loric pointed out a tree amidst tall clusters of weeds, where they might waylay the enemy, and said, “There I can stand without aid.” He drew forth the Sword of Logant with a quiet rasp of its blade.

“As you wish, my friend.” Marblin helped Loric to the elm in question. The Moonwatcher drew his sword and stood before his sickly companion, as if to shield him from attack.

Barag strode on with confidence equal to his great bulk.

Warnyck had all but disappeared. Occasionally, a minor twitch of a shrub gave him away, but to those who knew no difference, he might have been a tiny woodland animal and nothing more than that.

At a distance of a hundred yards Barag stopped and called aloud, “Men of Landolstadt, are you about?” He repeated his call twice.

Finally, a distant reply was forthcoming. “Identify yourself soldier, before I put my worthy arrowhead in your belly.”

“I am Barag son of Borag, a soldier under Captain Lebdeon in the Overlook Army of King Hadregeon,” he obliged the man. “How complete is our victory on the field?”

“Perhaps if you weren’t a craven dog,” shouted the tall narrow man who stepped from

behind a large rock opposite the barrel-chested warrior, “you would know that we crushed our enemies and won a great victory today! It’s a pity that a small band won their way through our trap, or his lordship would be preparing for his coronation right now. All in due course, I suppose,” he mused. He stroked his long mustaches, which were proportionately as thin as his body was, and asked, “Did the clash of arms scare you, Barag? Is that why you ran away?”

Loric could not see Barag’s face, but he knew him well enough to guess that his face was red with rage. His neck flushed with ire, and his great maul-like fists clenched, as if to crush his sword hilt. “You mistake cunning for fear, lieutenant,” Barag gruffly returned. “I was disarmed by an enemy captain who thought me his prisoner, but I drowned him in the river. Two of his ragged band jumped me as I came ashore, so I took this from them-” -he said with a shake of his weapon- “-and used it to split them like fishes. Now they too sleep eternal sleep in the riverbed.”

Five more Landolstadters strode warily into view as Barag relayed his collection of boastful lies. Loric clung to his tree and hung somewhat behind it. Marblin also tried to shrink from view.

Warnyck remained hidden from sight, his fingers likely twitching for action to come. Barag took a step toward the patrol, dropped his bloody sword and staggered to one knee. The leader of the group motioned for two of his men to assist Barag.

“They wounded you, soldier, but you will live to brag to others,” the spokesman assured him. He questioned, “Did any of them escape you?”

“Our work here is done!” Barag declared with certainty. “The chore of picking their bones is for the fishes.”

“Excellent,” the lieutenant said, at last turning away. “Let us go back to camp. There, your captain can determine whether you have earned honors or punishments--or both.” Other

unsuspecting men bestowed congratulations upon Barag as they stepped in behind their leader.

Loric continued to look on as Barag executed one of the most foolish and daring, dangerous and successful maneuvers he had ever witnessed. With surprising quickness and power, the great mountain of a man from Taeglin wrapped his chubby fingers around bare heads of his helpers and pounded them together like two fragile eggs. Barag quickly shifted his grips to the bases of their necks and hurled them with tremendous force toward those soldiers who were marching three abreast in front of them. His aim was true. Those men could only writhe in pain when their comrades crashed heads-and-shoulders-first into crooks of knees. Only the lieutenant remained unharmed. Upon realizing the status of his battered patrol, he bolted away upriver, afraid to face the vastly superior warrior who had inflicted so much damage upon his men in so little time and with so little effort.

“Craven dog indeed!” shouted Barag, subduing each writhing Landolstadter with his heavy fist.

Loric slumped down next to his tree, stunned and relieved. He saw Warnyck rise up from bushes overlooking their position, with his bow trained on the fleeing lieutenant. He paused and eased tension off his string, before he hastened back to his companions. The scout returned to Loric and Marblin well ahead of lumbering Barag.

“What did you think of that?” Marblin asked him.

“Our friend did well,” Warnyck answered with a nod.

“Our friend?” Marblin questioned.

The scout dodged the query, asking, “How is Loric?”

Marblin displayed their shivering friend with an open palm, saying gravely, “He took in the dragon water. His prospect of surviving....” he shook his head. “Well.... they say-”

“I have heard what they say!” Warnyck snapped, cutting Marblin short.

Loric thought he saw a tear in the corner of the scout’s eye, but the man blinked it away in an instant. “What do they say?” he begged to know.

“We must find shelter,” Warnyck said evenly. “Something secluded would be ideal for our needs. Only then can we build a fire.”

Loric would have persisted in his question, but he felt weak. Heat was consuming him from within. His mind was hazy with fever. He closed his eyes, listening through the dull hum of fire.

Warnyck knelt to feel Loric’s forehead, whereupon he quickly withdrew his hand and

cursed, “Dragons alive! He’s burning up.” The scout drew a deep breath to calm himself. “No matter,” he decided. Once we have a fire, some food and some rest Loric will recover. He will live to lead us to greater victories than we have yet known.”

A bass voice boomed behind them, “What happened to him?”

“The water of the Enchanted River is said to be a foul poison to any mortal man who drinks it, friend Barag,” Warnyck explained. “The Great King knows that Loric took in his share of it following his tumble.” The scout spat at the rushing currents nearby.

“No!” Barag denied him. “Say it’s not so.”

Marblin quietly shared, “It is a pity that Warnyck speaks the truth. Dragons stained the channel during King Donigan’s reign. The dragon water kills men. Our friend is doomed to die.”

Loric listened to every word of the discussion, wondering if it could be true. He was lying on his side with his eyes shut to prevent his vertigo assailing him. In truth, he felt so bad that he had to lend credit to those legends his friends had heard about the accursed river.
Am I really
dying?
he thought.
I do not feel like I am dying, but how should death feel to me? In any case, I
am in a poor state.
Loric nearly laughed at the irony of his situation. After all, he had come through fierce conflict thrice, only to perish from ingesting water the dragons had tainted in their deaths an age ago. It nearly brought him to the brink of despair.

Loric thought of Avalana, the lovely blond-haired princess he had left behind. Emotional pain wrenched his heart. If he were to die from the dragon water, all of her fears would be made manifest. Avalana had expressed dread for his death at their parting. Perhaps the princess had foreseen his ending, even when he had not.
I should have listened to you, Avalana, my dazzling
princess,
he thought remorsefully.
Had I known then what I know now, I would have taken you
away to hold forever. Alas, I am a fool, who may soon die a fool, while you are a captive of the
beastly barbarian king, Turtioc.
He regretted that the final words between him and Avalana echoed with resent in his head.

Loric moved his hand to smear away moisture seeping from between his closed lids.

Avalana’s bracelet tickled his arm, whispering life and hope to him. Loric remembered the words the lady had written to him. “There is no darker hour than this, fair Avalana,” he mouthed inaudibly.

“I would gladly take back the many wrongs I have done my townsman,” Barag lamented.

“To my shame, I used him cruelly hard in Taeglin. Now he is all that I have left of my people, and he too lay dying.” Barag cleared his throat, giving off a bear-like noise. “Today I learned that Loric is fierce and fair. He bested me in single combat, when many men would have run before me. Afterward.... he spared me--as I stood disarmed before him--when most others would have run me through. That is why I went into the river to save him. I would do so again.”

“Barag,” Loric rasped. His throat was parched and raw. “I forgive you.”

Loric felt enormous hands grab hold of his hand and give it a firm squeeze. “Thank you.”

“I too bear fault for the past, Barag,” Loric assured him. “I dodged you rather than

befriending you, but that matters little now. It pleases me that we will part as friends, be that now or later.”

Loric heard the shuffling of his friends gathering around him, even as Barag told him, “You cannot die, Loric. Our children must play together--for our own amusement as much as theirs.”

A painful chuckle escaped Loric. He was about to remind Barag that they did not yet have children, much less wives to bear them, when a high-pitched voice shouted from the heights above, “Oh, you have nothing to worry about, sirs. He’s not gonna’ die!”

Three men standing over Loric peered up and scanned the rocky hillside from which those words had come. Warnyck spotted the boy first, so he asked him, “Who are you? For that matter, what do you know?”

“Who are you, and what do you know?” the boy taunted in return.

“I am Warnyck, Chief Scout of Egolstadt and the rightful king’s army,” he called. Then he threatened, “What I know is that the palm of my hand can redden the backside of any boy who wields an intolerable tongue.”

“Ooh,
I’m scared!” teased the child, causing his listeners to chuckle.

Loric thought he might have a try at communicating with the lad, so he asked, “Are you sure I will not to die?”