13 Day War (33 page)

“What else could it be?” asked the corporal. “It’s short and stocky just like they are supposed to be”

“It could just be a small person,” frowned the sergeant. “I think you let those rumors get the best of you. There are no dwarves.”

“Look at the axe,” retorted the corporal. “That thing is twice as big as the dwarf. Do you really think a short man would be able to lift such a thing? It’s a dwarf I tell you.”

“Then dwarves are pretty stupid,” countered the sergeant. “If he was trying to spy on us unseen, he failed miserably. I bet a good bowman could hit him with one shot from here.”

“Stupid?” scoffed the corporal. “He is not trying to remain unseen. Neither of us saw him until he tilted that huge axe to catch the rays of the sun and send them towards us. He wants to be seen.”

Deep furrows creased the sergeant’s forehead. Chitor was right on one point. The sergeant would have never seen the dwarf if the sunlight had not reflected off the axe, but why would he announce his position when he could remain hidden?

“Why?” asked the sergeant.

“He is taunting us,” answered the corporal. “He is telling us that the dwarves are not afraid of us.”

“Well I know how to wipe that smile off his face,” scowled the sergeant as he turned back towards the column and scanned the ranks of the approaching soldiers.

He saw the next company coming, and he waved to the captain. The captain stepped out of the column and approached the sergeant.

“What is it, Sergeant?”

“If you look over my shoulder, Captain,” Turang said softly, “you will see a dwarf watching the column. This is an opportunity for you to have your best archer score the first kill in Alcea.”

The captain gazed up at the ridge, and his face darkened with anger. “Do you think it is funny to try to make a fool out of me, Sergeant?”

“No,” balked the sergeant as he spun around and gazed at the spot where the dwarf had been. “He was there just a moment ago. I swear it. Ask Corporal Chitor here. He saw it first.”

“Nice try, Sergeant,” the captain smiled thinly. “Just to show you that I do have a sense of humor, I will speak to your captain at camp tonight. I will request that he lend us your talents to handle latrine duty for my entire company. Now, find your spot in the column and return there immediately.”

The captain turned and headed back to the column.

“Great,” scowled the sergeant. “That sure made me look like a fool. Let’s get back in line before he decides on more punishment.”

The two men hurried forward to retake their assigned places in the column, but they talked as they walked.

“Do you think the dwarves were responsible for killing the black-cloaks?” asked the corporal.

“No,” replied the sergeant. “I heard it was an assassin.”

“An assassin,” scoffed the corporal. “Do you really think a lone man could enter our camp and assassinate eight battle mages? I think that is a story made up so that the rest of us don’t get scared. I bet the dwarves did it.”

“And you think it would be easier for dwarves to sneak into camp?” chuckled the sergeant. “I think you are deranged.”

“The dwarves probably have mages of their own,” retorted the corporal. “They could probably crush this entire column any time they wanted to. I think they are just toying with us.”

“Shut up!” snarled the sergeant. “I don’t want to hear any more about dwarves.”

* * * *

Prince Garong sat on the grass with a fairy standing on his knee. The Knight of Alcea stared at the image that the fairy was creating and shook his head.

“He should be looking directly into my eyes,” said the Elderal prince. “And keep his speech short. Your images of him are limited, so use as few phrases as possible to get your point across.”

Sprout frowned deeply, his tiny green head slowly shaking side-to-side. “It would help if you could just tell me which images to display.”

A female elf stood at the edge of the glade shaking her head. “You are wasting your time, Garong. We should just sneak into their camp at night and kill the mages.”

“Nothing would please me more, Rhula,” frowned the elven prince, “but Valon has forbidden it. He is afraid that their spell of fear will cause more deaths and alert the enemy to our methods.”

“Alert the enemy?” scoffed Princess Rhula. “Every day that passes, General Fortella and his army get a day closer to Tagaret, and the elves of Elderal are the only thing in his way. If we are to try to slow down his army, we have to eliminate the black-cloaks first. We do not have time for fairy games.”

“Valon’s word is law,” retorted Prince Garong. “When King Arik says not to enter their tents at night, we will not enter their tents at night. There is no point in arguing about this.”

“Then a lot of elves are going to die this week,” scowled Princess Rhula.

The elven princess turned and disappeared into the trees. Sprout turned and faced Prince Garong with a hurt look on his face.

“Fairy games? I don’t think the princess cares much for me.”

“Nonsense,” smiled Prince Garong. “Rhula treats everyone that way. Do not take it personally. She almost killed Valon one day, but that was before we knew who he was.”

“You mean the Bringer?” asked Sprout.

“Yes,” answered the Knight of Alcea. “We call King Arik Valon, just as you call him the Bringer. Now, let’s try this again.”

“I think part of the problem is that I have not seen that many priests,” frowned the tiny, green man, “and none of them spoke much while I was watching them. I cannot add words that I never heard him speak. Perhaps another fairy could do better, one who has seen and heard many priests. Such a fairy would have a large remembrance and be able to piece together the snippets required for this task.”

Prince Garong smiled sympathetically. He knew that Sprout felt inadequate for the task, but there was no time to gather other fairies and audition them. They had to kill the black-cloaks today, or they would not be able to slow the march from Mya to Tagaret enough to make a difference.

“You can do this, Sprout,” the elf said assuringly. “We just have to find the right combination of remembrances. Let’s start again. Show me what you remember, and I will pick out what we need.”

* * * *

Morgora was bored. As a black-cloak attached to General Fortella’s 2
^nd
Corps, he found the pace of the march agonizingly slow and the opposition nonexistent. Even the training marches back in Zara were more eventful. On the training marches there had been locals to harass and intimidate, but they had not seen a single Alcean since coming through the portal. Hoping that they would run across a lone trapper or hiker to have some fun with, Morgora kept scanning the forest on both sides of the road. When he finally did see someone in the trees, the sight was not one that he had expected.

Standing well off the road where he was hard to see, K’san stared at Morgora and beckoned the black-cloak to come to him. It was an unusual request as the priests never mingled with the army as the black-cloaks did. Morgora was intrigued and a little bit thankful for the diversion. Without a word to the others, the black-cloak turned his horse to the side of the road. As the column continued past him, the black-cloak rode into the forest until he reached the area where he had seen the priest. He frowned when he found K’san standing in the midst of a large thicket. There was no way to approach the priest.

“Your appearance here is quite unusual,” Morgora said in a way of greeting. “What did you want?”

“You are to come to me tonight,” replied K’san. “Bring your brothers, but no one else is to know of this meeting. North of the camp. Less than a league. Go now.”

Morgora’s brow creased heavily. “What is this about? Why are we to sneak out of the camp without telling anyone?”

“Return to your task,” replied K’san.

The priest’s eyes moved as if they were focusing on something behind Morgora. The black-cloak turned to see what K’san was looking at. He saw nothing but trees. When he turned back to ask the priest about the need for secrecy, K’san was gone.

Morgora turned his horse and headed back towards the column, but he was no longer bored. The priest had said very little, but his appearance in the forest and the need for secrecy spoke volumes to the black-cloak. It was obvious to Morgora that K’san had a need for the black-cloaks, and that sounded exciting, certainly more exciting than anything that had happened since coming through the portal. The more Morgora thought about the priest’s words, the more curious he grew. The need for secrecy indicated that either he did not trust General Fortella, or the 2
^nd
Corps had been infiltrated. Either way, Morgora felt that exciting days were just around the corner.

It was a bright sunny morning in Tagaret, and Sergeant Skyler whistled as he walked the streets of Tagaret. He sported a wide, friendly smile, and he nodded in greeting to everyone he passed. Less than a block from the Royal Palace, the sergeant entered a small shop and purchased a tin of pipe tobacco. He dallied in the shop for a few moments, discussing the state of the city with the shopkeeper. Both men expressed concern about the plague spreading through the population, and each of them remarked about the levels of incivility that appeared recently. It was the typical type of conversation that one would expect between two citizens, and the sergeant was careful as always not to discuss matters best left inside the Royal Palace. As an aide to the head of the Alcean army, Sergeant Skyler knew not to speak of such things in public.

The sergeant’s next stop was the shoemaker’s shop to pick up a pair of boots that he had left to be repaired. A tiny bell rang as he entered the shop. The sergeant closed the door and looked around the dimly lit shop. Thousands of pairs of shoes and boots filled the store, attesting to the large volume of customers that the shoemaker had managed to attain during his short time in the city. The curtain at the rear of the shop moved and an old man shuffled through the opening.

“Good morning,” smiled Sergeant Skyler as he approached the counter where the shoemaker transacted his business. “I left a pair of boots to be repaired. You said that they would be done this morning.”

“And so they are,” smiled Artimor. “Wait right here while I get them.”

The sergeant watched the old man disappear through the curtain before realizing that he had not mentioned his name, and the shoemaker would not know which pair of boots to retrieve unless he at least identified himself. He opened his mouth to shout his name so that the old man could hear him, but he said nothing and frowned deeply. He saw Artimor out of the corner of his eye, and the shoemaker was not behind the curtain at all. He was in the main room of the shop slightly to the sergeant’s left. Sergeant Skyler shook his head in confusion. He could have sworn that he saw the shoemaker go through the curtain, but that obviously could not have happened.

 
The bell at the door sounded again and a man walked into the shop. The sergeant heard Aritmor’s voice welcoming the new customer, and he turned towards the sound. Artimor smiled at the sergeant and pressed a pair of boots into his hands.

“I think you will like the workmanship that I put into these boots, Sergeant Skyler,” Artimor said. “I enjoyed working on them. Make sure to tell your comrades who it was that did such fine work.”

The sergeant stared at his boots. They were not only repaired well, but they looked as good as a new pair of boots would. He was pleased with the work.

“An excellent job,” agreed the soldier. “How much do I owe you?”

“You owe me nothing,” smiled the shoemaker. “You young lads put your lives on the line to keep the rest of us safe. The least I can do is repair your boots for free. Anyone who serves in the army will get free repairs from me as long as I am alive. Go tell your comrades.”

The sergeant’s jaw dropped as he stared at the shoemaker. He had heard rumors in the barracks about free repairs from the shoemaker, but he had not believed them. Such a thing was unheard of in Tagaret, but to be honest with himself, the sergeant had to admit that the rumors had caused him to try the new shoemaker’s services. He had hoped for a discount, but he was ecstatic to find the rumors confirmed.

“I do not know how to thank you,” gushed the sergeant. “For a new merchant, you are the most patriotic one that has ever graced our city. Thank you.”

Artimor smiled broadly and nodded to the soldier. He then dismissively turned his attention to the new customer. The sergeant left the shop with a grin on his face, and the new arrival turned and watched him leave with a sneer on his lips.

“I guess I should tell you that I am also a soldier,” quipped the new customer. “My uniform is being cleaned today.”

“I am sure that you are,” the shoemaker replied sarcastically. “Let me get your boots, Fletcher.”

The Snake immediately tensed at the mention of his name. Any man who knew his name and also favored the soldiers of Alcea was a threat to the Snake, and Fletcher did not leave threats around to endanger him in the future. A knife slid into his hand as the shoemaker moved behind the curtain to get the boots that had been left for repair. Fletcher thought about going through the curtain and attacking the shoemaker in the back room in case another customer entered the shop, but he hesitated. The Snake could not be sure if the shoemaker had confederates in the rear of the shop. He would wait for Artimor to return with his boots. Unexpectedly, Fletcher felt his fingers open. The knife slipped from his grasp and fell to the floor. As the Snake bent over to pick up the knife, he saw a boot step on it. He looked up and saw Artimor looking down at him.

“I think your knife must have fallen out of your sheath,” Artimor smiled tautly. “I do fine leather work on sheaths as well as boots. Why don’t you remove the sheath and leave it with me? I will repair it for you.”

Fletcher rose slowly and backed away from Artimor. He was certain that it was not possible for the shoemaker to have moved through the curtain to step on his knife without the aid of magic. Artimor was far more than he seemed to be, and that made the Snake very nervous.