TST (14 page)

Azerick spotted an opening and thrust with his spear, trying to take his opponent low in the gut. Rangor’s tusked smirk grew wider as he watched the foolish spell caster take the bait and fall into his trap. He brought his shield down hard and fast, driving the point of Azerick’s spear into the ground between his large booted feet. He stomped his heavy boot down on the wooden shaft and stripped the weapon from his opponent’s hands.

The big half-orc lunged forward at the same instance and plunged his blade deeply into the sorcerer’s right upper chest. Azerick felt the steel pierce his flesh and slide between his ribs. He backpedaled furiously as blood instantly filled his mouth from the wound that was far more serious than his split lip. He kept stumbling back, trying to put as much distance between him and the creature that had just inflicted the mortal wound.

Azerick pressed his hand against the hole in his chest and felt the air escaping in a frothing gurgle every time he inhaled. Rangor basked in the crowd’s adulation, raising his sword and shield to the thundering applause. He pointed his sword at the retreating sorcerer as the crowd chanted for him to kill the human.

“Are you ready to die now, wizard?” Rangor taunted.

Azerick pressed the tip of his nose up with the finger of one hand giving him the impression of having a pig nose and flashed a crude gesture with the other. The half-orc’s face burned with rage and charged forward with his magically enhanced speed. Azerick pulled together every bit of concentration he possessed and wove what could be the last spell of his life. Rangor brought his shield in front of him to block whatever spell was coming his way.

The half-orc was almost on top of him when Azerick released the pent up energies within him. Long, triangular stone spears three to four feet long erupted from the ground directly in front of the charging half-orc. The stone protrusions looked like long, slender pyramids jutting out of the earth away from the caster and tapering to a point as sharp as any spear. They covered the ground between Azerick and his opponent in a field ten feet wide by ten feet deep.

Unable to react to the unexpected obstacle, Rangor impaled himself on several of the needle-sharp obelisks. The half-orc looked down at his wounds then back at Azerick in confusion. The crowd stared on in silence at the stone spikes that pierced the half-orc’s chest, stomach, and legs.

Azerick staggered but managed to stand up straight and faced his vanquished foe. He raised his arm and unleashed a lightning bolt straight into Rangor’s face, blasting him free of the spears that held him upright. The last of his energy spent, Azerick collapsed into a heap before he could hear the crowd erupt into a cacophony of cheers, clapping, and pounding feet.

*****

General Baneford sat in his command tent, one tent among the three dozen erected in a small clearing miles from any road or town, warming himself next to the small iron field stove. General Baneford was a man of unquestioning loyalty but lately he found that he was developing some sincere doubts as to the efficiency and viability of his orders.

He and his men had been chasing rumors of the locations of Dundalor’s armor for the past few years without pause. The last piece, a pair of glossy black and gold-filigreed greaves, they had located in the midst of a hellish swamp rife with quicksand, sinkholes, mosquitoes, and highly territorial lizardmen. He lost a dozen men and seven horses on that mission—five to the lizardmen, five to bogs and sinkholes, and two to a basilisk that added his two men and one of their mounts to a rather impressive collection of exceedingly lifelike statues of lizardmen and other local fauna.

That was over a year ago and Duke Ulric’s missives have been expressing his growing impatience with his general’s slow progress more and more. It was enough to drive a man to drink, and his professionalism and sense of duty rarely allowed him to drink while in the field. He was now in the midst of dense forest following a rumor about some crazy hedge wizard that allegedly knew the location of one of the armor pieces he sought. He and his men had been scouring these cursed woods with their thick brambles that left burs in the horses’ tails and mane for the past two months without a sign of another living soul, unless you count the orc bands.

Did orcs have souls? The general guessed they must but he hardly counted them among one of the useful races and disregarded their presence except for increasing the guard roster. So far, they had shown little interest in attacking the well-armed band under his control for which he was grateful. He had had his fill with the lizard folks’ hit and run ambushes last year to last him for some time to yet to come.

A tapping on the doorpost alerted him to someone outside his tent.

“Sir, a messenger has arrived from the duke,” one of his guards informed him.

“Very well, send him in,” General Baneford replied with a sigh that expressed his lack of anticipation for whatever the duke had to say.

The tent flap was thrown open but due to the double, light-disciplined vestibule, he saw only the inside of the outer flap of his tent when the messenger entered. The young rider gave the general a sharp salute before and after handing over the wax-sealed parchment. Out of habit, General Baneford studied the seal and impressed crest for sign of tampering or forgery before breaking the seal and reading the contents.

General,

Due to the inordinate amount of time you seem to be taking to accomplish the simple courier duty that I have assigned you, I have taken it upon myself to seek outside help with the locating of the items of interest to me. My sources, that are costing me a great deal of gold should you be interested in such a triviality, have informed me that one of the items that I desperately seek is located in a monastery high in the Witch Crag Mountains in a hidden vale between two of the highest summits in the range.

Since I do not wish to over-tax your limited imagination, I have included a crude map that even you should be able to follow. Since I have done everything but have the item placed directly into your hands, I pray that you will be able to accomplish this task before I am too old and feeble for them to do me any good. I have sent the courier with a stipend of seven-hundred and fifty pieces of gold so you do not have the excuse of lacking the means to acquire provisions or information. Report to me immediately upon the success of your mission or do not report to me at all. I would consider any further failure as a possible act of subversion or treason.

Subversion, treason, how could Ulric even consider such a thing? He had earned his rank through years of loyal service and commendation during the border wars with Sumara and largely ridding the kingdom of the cross-border, marauding nomads that prowled the southern deserts like packs of jackals.

I need a drink,
General Baneford said to himself and rummaged through a trunk where he eventually came up with a small bottle of liquor he often carried to help loosen the tongues of certain guests.

He was breaking one of his own cardinal rules, but the way he felt right now more than justified it in his mind. Treason, preposterous! As if any other general could have held these men together and accomplished the tasks they had so far achieved without a single desertion or mutiny!

The general downed the small glass of amber liquid and felt his nerves calm almost immediately as the alcohol burned a path to his stomach and spread warmth throughout his innards. He looked at the still nearly full bottle and with a shrug poured himself a second glass. He would sit and relax for the rest of the day before moving out at first light for the frozen reaches of the Witch Crag Mountains.

General Baneford ordered one of his lieutenants to pass along the movement orders to the men. They would be prepared to ride before first light. They were good soldiers, loyal and professional. The general smiled to himself as he thought about the men who followed him, him, not that blowhard duke who does not know how to treat those that are worthy and loyal. He would never treat his men with such contempt. They had earned his respect and admiration just as he had earned theirs. They were good men, and they were his men.

He had never allowed such disrespectful thoughts to enter his head before. He knew in that instant that something had changed inside him. It would definitely be a good time to retire when all this sordid business was finished. General Baneford chuckled at his own thoughts as he sipped at another three fingers of scotch. Blowhard, that’s all Ulric was; just a man with money and the power that money can buy.

Yes, things were definitely changing. He wondered how much. He decided that he would complete his mission, his own sense of duty required it, but this would be the last one. Whether Ulric got his crown or not, once he handed over the armor, he was retiring and that was that.

“What an ass,” the general said aloud and laughed himself hoarse before stifling his mirth to a chuckle as he sipped at his drink.

CHAPTER 5

Azerick awoke with a gnawing in his stomach, a dry mouth, and a great deal of pain. He turned his head and saw Delinda, apparently asleep, in a chair near his bed. She must have sensed his return to consciousness because her eyes suddenly opened as he looked at her.

“Azerick, you’re awake!” she cried and nearly fell out of her chair as she rushed to his side. She pressed her small hand against his cheek and kissed his lips. “I was so worried. I gave you the healing potion we made and it closed your wounds but you had already lost so much blood by the time Lord Xornan brought you back.”

Azerick touched the wound on his chest and winced in pain.

“The potion stopped the bleeding and closed the wound but it did not come close to completely healing it,” she explained. “I have been giving you the fast heal potion as best I could in the meantime but it is such a horrible injury. I did not know if it would be enough.”

Azerick reached up and wiped away the tears that streamed freely down her cheeks. Delinda took his hand in hers and squeezed it gently.

“I prepared another healing draught but it will not be ready for at least two more days. You have been asleep for nearly four days now.”

Azerick pointed to a pitcher on the small table next to his bed. “Oh of course, I’m so sorry,” Delinda gasped and filled a cup halfway full with water from the pitcher.

The water was a welcome relief to his parched throat even though he coughed a large amount of it back up onto his chest. He sipped at it more slowly as his beloved tilted it up to his lips.

“You must be hungry. Do you think you could eat something?” she asked.

“Yes, please, I’m starving,” Azerick croaked out a reply.

“Let me go to the kitchen, I will be right back.”

Delinda darted out the door and down the stairs. Azerick tried to recall the events of the battle just before he blacked out as Delinda’s footsteps echoed down the stairs.

He remembered that Rangor had stabbed him deeply in the chest. He remembered a lot of blood and his air bubbling out of the wound. After that, his memories became fuzzy. He was pretty sure that he had used his new spell but could not remember the exact results. It must have been successful; otherwise, he would certainly be dead right now. He was surprised that he had even lived through his so-called victory.

Delinda returned a few minutes later with a bowl of honey-sweetened porridge. “Cook was glad to hear that you are awake. I imagine that Zeb and the others will learn of your recovery soon enough and will wish to give you their regards as well.”

Azerick smiled and nodded his head in appreciation of his friends’ concerns and well wishes. He gratefully took the bowl that Delinda offered and took small bites of the warm, soft food. He had a hard time eating even the small bites but forced himself to work through it until the bowl was empty. He leaned back against the pillows once more, his stomach settled and satiated. With the food weighing in his stomach he felt his eyelids getting heavy and fell back to sleep as Delinda stroked his hair.