Terry W. Ervin (28 page)

I sat back, exhausted. “His hand and forearm.”

“I know,” said Road Toad. “Frostbitten.”

I opened my eyes. Road Toad had cut away the prince’s leather legging before draping a folded cloth over the wound. “Hold the leg, so I can wrap it.”

I shook my head, clearing it, and complied.

After he tied a shredded blanket around the leg, he said, “Good work.” Then we slid the prince onto the litter. He groaned and opened his eyes a crack.

Road Toad slung a satchel over his shoulder. “Grab your crossbow.” He lashed my spear to the litter. “We’ve been here too long already.”

We carried the prince down the hill. “We’ll follow the track the ogres and goblins made back toward that thicket.”

Five minutes later we’d entered the dense stand of dogwood and scrub pines. It led to an enemy campsite with a cold fire pit and several bed piles of gathered branches and leaves. The prince signaled us to stop and muttered an incantation. A tingling breeze swept over me from head to toe. He fell back, paler than before.

We kept moving, listening while searching the terrain and sky. Twenty minutes later we’d rounded several more hills, generally heading west, before we broke from the path that led to flat open grassland.

“There,” nodded Road Toad, and we hustled into a stand of lilac bushes a week past bloom nestled under a pair of stunted maples. It was tricky maneuvering to the center of the weakly fragrant bushes. We set the prince down and Road Toad immediately began checking him over.

“Will he make it?” I asked.

Road Toad slid his hand under Prince Reveron’s mailed shirt and held the arrow shaft. “Lift the shirt.”

I did, freeing it from the mail links before rolling the bloody armor up. “It’s not deep.”

Road Toad nodded. “Any more spell strength in you?”

I shook my head. He didn’t appear surprised.

The prince flinched and clenched his teeth as Road Toad worked the arrowhead out. Holding it up, he asked the prince, “Memento?”

“Thank you,” whispered the prince. “My fair Seelain is sure to treasure it.”

Road Toad pulled a needle and horsetail thread from his satchel and went to work on the belly wound. “Arm beginning to hurt?”

Prince Reveron nodded.

“It’s going to get much worse.”

“Then let’s discuss my plan before pain further clouds my thoughts.”

Road Toad nodded. “I assume your spell removed the dragon scent, making us more difficult to track. I saw the mudhounds too.”

Mudhounds? I thought. We’d never move fast enough to evade them.

Prince Reveron licked his lips before continuing, striving to ignore the growing pain. “First, we’ve been betrayed. The trap set for us was too organized. Too complete.”

“Who knew of our mission?” asked Road Toad.

“Only the King’s Council.”

“A spy. We must return and warn your father.”

“Agreed,” said the prince. “But the mission must be completed.”

This caught both Road Toad and me by surprise. “Prince,” argued Road Toad, “you cannot go forward with this quest.”

“Agreed, I cannot. In any case, only I have the standing to accuse one of the Council.”

“Do you know who the traitor is?” asked Road Toad.

I could have answered that. Road Toad could as well.

“I do not, but I suspect you do. And from your face, you as well, Flank Hawk.”

In a few sentences Road Toad relayed the stormy night incident with Colonel Brizich after our visit to the One-Eyed Pelican.

“That does not prove his guilt,” said the prince. “But serpent cavalrymen from his bevy dropped supplies in advance of us.” He shook his head. “Even more reason I must speak with my father.”

“Then it’s settled,” said Road Toad. “We shall make our way back.”

“No,” replied the prince. “One of you must continue the mission.”

Road Toad only scowled, so I asked, “What is the mission?”

“To venture where I showed on the map. To trade with one of the great elves for a way to disrupt the Necromancer King’s plans, allowing us to overcome him.” The prince sneered and cocked his head, swallowing. “We’re destined to lose this war, battling against panzers and Stukas. We cannot replace wizards lost.”

“Nor dragons,” added Road Toad. “Attrition.”

“What have you to trade?” I asked.

The prince moved a shaky hand to the hilt of the Blood-Sword. “It was captured by my forefathers from one of this particular great elf’s emissaries.”

“Why wouldn’t he simply wrest it from you?” asked Road Toad with some skepticism.

“It was not an emissary to us, but to our current foe. And Imperial Seer Lochelle, Prime Counselor to the King, believes he would not.”

The memory of her rune-scribed chamber sent a chill down my spine. She was powerful, but to guess the motives of a greater elf, a being of legend?

“She also said, ‘The friend of a returned friend would be the key to success.’” His hard gaze fell upon me. “You, Flank Hawk, must continue the quest.”

The prince’s eyes didn’t waver. Road Toad’s face transformed from one of surprise to one of contemplation.

“Me? I can’t complete the mission,” I argued, standing. My helmet scraped against the covering branches. “We need to get you back to the King’s City. To reveal the traitor.”

“If anyone is to carry on,” said Road Toad, “it is you, Flank Hawk.”

“I cannot take the Blood-Sword,” I said, wondering what they were thinking. “I have no idea where to go, or how to get there. I have no rank or authority.”

“You lack the skill to care for the prince’s wounds,” said Road Toad. “Your healing magic is too weak. And now that the prince knows of your secret, he, like any other noble and military officer, is oath-bound to inform the first Fendra Jolain priest encountered.”

He let that sink in. Any noble that failed to report those with healing ability forfeited the services of Fendra Jolain’s healers in their lands. Prince Reveron wouldn’t risk that. Not for me. Especially not in a time of war.

“Even if you are now willing to endure induction into the healing cult for the sake of the prince, it is I who is familiar with this region and have knowledge of trails seldom used.”

It was like they were sending me to certain death. “Without a dragon, how can I cross the Western Ocean to the land beyond?”

“Road Toad,” said the prince, “give him the map.” As Road Toad pulled the leather tube from the satchel, the prince lifted his right hand. “And my ring.”

Road Toad removed the gold ring from the prince’s little finger and presented it with the map to me. I stepped back further into the bushes. Taking them meant I’d accepted the mission. It was beyond me. Passing it on to me doomed it to failure.

“Mercenary Flank Hawk,” snapped the prince. “You must carry on. The Blood-Sword must leave this land. The enemy must not capture it.”

“Road Toad,” I pleaded, “tell him that I am nothing more than a militiaman, a farmer.”

Prince Reveron gritted his teeth. His breathing became more labored. “One must be a spellcaster to wield the Blood-Sword, which you are. Otherwise it will possess the one who draws it.”

I didn’t want to carry that sword, let alone wield it.

“Prince,” said Road Toad, shifting the ring and map case to one hand and pulling a thin, metal vial from a pocket inside his boot. “This medicine will deaden the pain, but it will also weaken your thoughts.”

“Bide a moment more,” the prince said, forcing each word. His eyes flicked to his arm and back to me. “You must. I cannot carry on. And I must return to warn my father. Both are necessary to save my people. Your family too.”

My family. It wasn’t fair what they were asking. It wasn’t reasonable for them to expect me to succeed. I knew nothing.

Prince Reveron repeated, “The friend of a returned friend is the key. And you will find aid from one once rescued by my friend.” He nodded to Road Toad. “Sint Malo. It is an open city. Belinda the Cursed. She has crossed the great ocean.” The prince curled up in pain.

Road Toad offered me the map and ring again. “The prince has called upon you. How can you deny him?”

“He asks the impossible.”

“That is right. He asked,” said Road Toad. “He did not command you.” He offered the map and ring again. “I will tell you what you need to know. We must separate before the hounds get too close.”

What choice did I have? I couldn’t follow Road Toad back with the prince. The enemy had overrun my home. My family. What would happen to them if I refused to try? I took the map and the ring. “I will try.”

“Take the sword.”

I knelt next to the prince. “I,” he started, “I will honor…any promises you must make in my name.”

I unbuckled the belt, taking the sword and scabbard from the prince. It was lighter than I expected. “I will carry it,” I said. “But I will not draw it.”

“If I were you, neither would I,” Road Toad agreed.

Within two minutes Road Toad stitched up the cut on my cheek, telling me that, as a healer, there would be little scarring, if any. Then he scratched a map into the dirt, giving me directions to the open city of Sint Malo. Apparently he’d met Belinda the Cursed more than once. She frequented the Fertile Serpent, and Road Toad swore the food served was no worse than the One-Eyed Pelican’s. I took it all in, knowing he was better suited for the task than me.

Finally, he gave me eight gold and fourteen silver coins minted with a pinwheel of five swords, emblem of the Faxtinian Coalition Council, instead of the head of Keesee’s King Tobias. With a handshake and pat on the shoulder, he said, “Don’t be too surprised when we meet again.”

Road Toad’s hand on my shoulder reminded me of the tattoo and the brotherhood bond he had with the prince. Did that make me more expendable? Deep down, I had to believe that Road Toad wouldn’t send me off, doomed to certain failure and death. I clutched my spear and, before leaving the concealing lilacs, I replied, “Can one surprise the dead?”

Thousands of thoughts swirled in my head. Prince Reveron had passed on to me more than his evil sword to barter. The responsibility of safeguarding it, along with the duty to find the greater elf and trade the sword for something to save all of Keesee weighed heavily on me as I trudged west. It was an impossible task.

2,873 Years before the Reign of King Tobias of Keesee

The SLBM’s final surviving .8 megaton warhead plummeted off course and detonated eleven miles north of the newest nuclear power plant in eastern Nevada. Its airburst temporarily rivaled the sun, visually and thermally. Meanwhile, its two hidden and undiscovered sister warheads resting in crates had mere seconds before adding to the ravaging destruction.

Two hours, I thought, estimating by the sun’s position in the morning sky. Opposite the sun, a distant line of clouds signaled possible rain by early afternoon. I’d been running two hours and just circled around a second burned-out village.

Road Toad said that Paris–Imprimis had fallen and the enemy roamed the countryside largely unopposed as they worked to secure their conquest of the Faxtinian Coalition.

I stood inside a coppice of maple trees. Denser stands became more frequent as I moved westward. I chewed on a strip of beef jerky from my satchel and listened to the birds. A male blackbird sang, calling its a mate and warning off competitors from its nesting territory.

I had to pace myself as three days of hard travel loomed before I’d reach Sint Malo. Being an open city meant that Sint Malo refused to take sides in the war. How long would that last? Corradin the Conjurer had ruled the city for centuries, owing his power and longevity to demons and other fell sprits he commanded. I wiped the sweat from my brow. How many of the stories about the Conjurer were true? Sint Malo was known, even in the Doran Confederacy, as a dark city filled with danger. Even powerful lords and wizards avoided confrontations with Sint Malo’s ruler. To do otherwise risked his wrath, earning a sending of demons to extract vengeance. Apparently Corradin the Conjurer’s power and reputation held the Necromancer King at bay.

I finished the piece of jerky and decided to stop at the next stream and flip rocks for crayfish. I could lash one of my quarrels to a stick and spear frogs and save my dried food for more urgent need. Then, I heard it—the deep baying chorus. Mudhounds!

I grabbed my spear and ran, cursing myself for stopping. Mudhounds were faultless trackers. More reliable than magic. My father said they could track a week-old scent, and mine was only hours old.

When I first took flight I pondered ways of leaving a confused trail. Water, doubling back, taking to trees. Each method would’ve slowed my pace, and I decided distance was more important. My stomach turned at the wrong decision I’d made.

I risked being spotted by crossing directly over the top of a hill instead of the roundabout routes I’d taken. It couldn’t be goblins chasing me unless they were mounted. It’d be ogres hunting me with the mottled brown, wolf-sized hounds. I listened as I ran and identified the baying of at least three hounds, still a ways off. I checked the sky over my shoulder. No dragons at least.