Severed Empire: Wizard's War (3 page)

The others moved faster than bolts of lightning. While Quill dropped onto his belly, he slid his bow off his back, and extended the weapon down toward Mykal. His closing fingers looped into the corner of the bow.

Blodwyn swung around his staff. Mykal caught hold of the end, and managed a firmer grip than what his fingers had on the bow. Together, the men kept him from falling off the side of the mountain. Barely.

Blodwyn’s face reddened. He held onto the staff with both hands.

“Climb!” Quill shouted.

It was a task easier said than done. Mykal fought for a foothold. He set his boots on the side of the mountain. The staff was slipping out of both of their hands.

Quill, and Blodwyn attempted pulling him up.

His hands were too numb from the cold. He wasn’t sure how long he could hold on. Without thinking about what he was doing, he looked behind him. It was a long way down. Sharp rocks waited to greet him below. That might have been the extra incentive he needed. Closing his eyes, Mykal managed to hang on to both the bow and the staff. He walked the face carefully. The others continued hoisting him upward. It was slow going. Their energy was low. The three of them were hungry, tired, and freezing.

Mykal knew he’d have to let go of one of the weapons, and lunge for the ledge. That might not prove the safest move. More of the rock could come away from the mountain. There would be no rescuing him then. However, the bow wasn’t built to hold his weight. The taut drawstring threatened to break free from the corner.

He let go of the bow and threw his arm up, reaching for anything to hold onto. He just missed the ledge. There was no way to correct the action. His arm fell backward.

Quill grabbed his sleeve. He held him up by the thin tunic. Quill’s fingers dug into his flesh. Mykal winced at first, but couldn’t feel much difference. Between the adrenaline pulsing through his body, and the cold, he was numb. His chest was hauled up and over the ledge.

Blodwyn leaned over and grabbed onto Mykal’s waist, under the back of the vest, and hoisted him all the way up with a grunt.

Panting, Mykal tried to regain composure. He thought his heart had stopped beating a few times. Now, it slammed around behind his ribcage, and the
th-thud th-thud th-thud
echoed inside his ears. It should have been a relief, but he feared the onset of a throbbing headache. If he was lucky, and the journey so far had proven he was not, he wouldn’t become ill. “Thought I was a goner.”

“You and I, both, kid.” Quill huffed. His uncle tried grinning. The curve of his mouth was more of a grimace than a comfort.

“We should keep moving.” Blodwyn stood up and brushed away snow, loose gravel, and dust from his cloak. He looked up, and away from Ironwall. “I do believe a storm is on our heels. If we don’t get off this mountain soon, it won’t be safe remaining on this trail.”

“Remain safe?” Mykal shook his head. He did a push-up to his knees. Quill held the back of his arm, until he was certain Mykal’s legs would hold him. They did quiver some. “I’m okay.”

“Are you sure?” Quill said, whispering.

“I will be.” Mykal appreciated the concern. There hadn’t been much time for reflection as of late. Having met his father’s brother warmed his heart some. As much as he loved his grandfather, he was the only family he’d had for nearly as long as he could remember. Was it possible he’d no longer be an orphan? He tried not to dwell on it; still a part of him could not ignore the excitement stirring inside his chest. Finding his mother and father felt surreal. He wasn’t going to get his hopes up. Not yet. It was still far too soon for that.

Reigning in emotions, Mykal slapped a hand onto the hilt of his sword, the other onto his hip, and sighed. Sucking in a deep breath, the cold air passed through his lungs. It burned, but invigorated. Thankful he wasn’t crushed pulp at the base of the mountain had a way of forcing appreciation for the little things, like breathing. “I’m good. I’m fine.”

***

Ironwall Pass was a mining town, and not part of any kingdom. It sat in the foothills of the Zenith Mountains, west of the Isthmian Sea, and north of the Cicade Forest. Far to the west were the Eridanus ruins. Its castle had been attacked nearly fifteen years ago. The king sent riders in all directions looking for help. The attempt for alliances was received too late. An unknown enemy had destroyed the castle, desolated the surrounding villages, and left heaps of decaying bodies in its wake.

Miners sacrificed daylight and spent long hours working in the bowels of the mountain. The coal and minerals extracted were exported in trade for essentials; grains, rice, fruits and vegetables. No one person grew rich from the digging, but no one went without. The Pass ran well all on its own, without royal decrees or knight enforcement. There was no king, no ruler. The people worked together. The shipments were sent, and the profits shared.

The main drag housed an array of businesses on either side of a wide dirt road. There were post fences in front of several establishments for tying up horses, and troughs filled with water for drinking. The buildings were constructed of wood planks. Painted signs or hanging shingles advertised the type of establishment. It felt as if they’d been away for years. Mykal knew there had been a chance they’d never return. He wished the circumstances were different.

Mykal saw Patton’s Place, and looked over at Blodwyn, silently enquiring.

Blodwyn smiled. “Meet us at the tavern. Lunch is on me,” he said.

“We don’t have time.” Mykal didn’t want to waste any time. Galatia was a prisoner. Even though she might not expect a rescue, he had every intention of freeing her from the Mountain King. She just needed to hold on.

“We do,” Blodwyn insisted. “We have to eat. We have to build up our strength and meals and eventually a good night’s sleep are going to be essential. We won’t be any help to Galatia if we’re weak and near death when we reach the Osiris Realm. Do you understand?”

Mykal’s stomach growled. He was hungry. The tavern food was delicious. His mouth watered at the thought of fresh baked, warm bread, and ale. “I understand. I won’t be long. I just want to say hello.”

Quill and Blodwyn walked down the road toward the tavern as Mykal rounded the corner on his way to the stables. He could smell wet hay and manure. It was hard to believe how much he’d missed those fragrances. They reminded him of home; of Grandfather. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose.

The stable was long, and open at both ends. Stalls lined either side. They were made of polished wood with iron bars, and stall doors that rolled open. In front of each stall door tin buckets hung from hooks. Saddles straddled waist-high walls. Bridles and reins were mounted on the wall by both the entrance and exit. Two pitchforks stood in a small mound of hay in the center of the aisle. Mykal sighed, comforted by the condition of the stables. He knew the coins Blodwyn paid Copper didn’t go to waste. The horses, his horses, were well cared for.

Mykal whistled. The horses stirred, some snorted, and neighed. Many heads appeared over stall doors. There was no hiding his smile. Mykal laughed as he reached into a bucket and removed a carrot. “Jiminey,” Mykal petted the long nose, and fed the horse the long orange vegetable. He spent a moment nuzzling Jiminey, Defiance, and Applejack.

He looked around for his horse. There were another two horses with their heads out, looking for his attention. Neither was Babe. Mykal walked past them, running a caressing hand along the sides of their faces. His heartbeat quickened. There was only one stall left. No horse stood waiting to greet him. His mouth went dry. Babe knew his whistle. He felt afraid to look inside, worried what he might find.

He stayed and just listened. He thought if he remained quiet he could hear if Babe was in the stall, hear her breathing. He couldn’t. He heard all of the horses in their stalls, but couldn’t differentiate one from the other. The only way he could find closure was by walking forward. He took a small step. It was more of a shuffle. He never lifted his foot. Instead his boot pushed hay and mud. He did the same thing with his other foot. The muscles in his legs were almost refusing to work.

He remembered watching Babe’s birth. He assisted the mother in the delivery. Once born, Babe stood up on quivering legs, but never fell down. Not once.

Mykal whistled again.

The other horses neighed and snorted.

No sound came from the remaining, seemingly empty stall.

Mykal looked in. He blinked back tears as he grabbed the door’s handle and slid the door open on its track. As he walked into the stall, he dipped his hand into the tin bucket and pulled out three carrots. Babe’s gold coat and white mane looked properly brushed.

The Palouse looked at him with giant round eyes, and turned away.

“I told you I’d be back.” Mykal whispered, not trusting his voice to speak any louder.

Babe lowered her head and snorted. Her front hoof scratched at the hay.

“Don’t be like that,” Mykal said. “Don’t be mad with me.”

The horse raised its head, and snorted again, before taking a hesitant step toward him.

“Get over here,” Mykal said. “Come here, girl.”

Babe walked toward him, her head went over his shoulders. Mykal wrapped his arms around her strong neck, his hands petting. “That’s my girl.”

She neighed, her head held high.

He fed her the carrots, rubbing the top of her nose. “Guess what? I missed you, too, Babe. I missed you, too!”

Chapter 2

They sat around a table inside the tavern. The place was dark and musty. An ample-breasted woman in a dirty apron set a piping rabbit pie down on the table. Blodwyn asked for another loaf of bread, while Quill requested a second round of ale for the three of them. The thick coffyn crust cracked under the heel of Mykal’s spoon. Fragrant steam
poofed
into the air, escaping from the center opening.

“Smells amazing,” Quill said, and lifted the pie, scooping gravy, rabbit and chunks of potato and carrots onto his plate, over his hunk of bread. “I dare say I was getting tired of crow on the mountain.”

Blodwyn piled pie onto his plate next, and Mykal went last scraping his spoon around inside the tin until every last bit dripped onto his plate.

“How are the horses?” Blodwyn bit off a piece of bread, and stuffed a spoonful of it into his mouth. Dark gravy trickled onto his beard.

“I spoke with the man tending to them. He is going to have them ready for riding soon.” Mykal wasn’t sure why he put the last bits onto his plate. He could have eaten directly out of the tin. He shoveled food into his mouth. The hot pie burned his tongue and the insides of his cheeks. He didn’t care. It was a much better feeling than nearly freezing to death. “I did tell him there would be an extra coin for his troubles. I know I spoke out of turn—”

“Because you have no coin?” Quill held his fork in a fist, the tines protruded above his thumb. He licked gravy off his knuckles.

“I don’t have any coins. That’s true.” Mykal lowered his head. He should have known better than to promise someone money he didn’t have.

“I have you covered.” Blodwyn hefted his mug his mouth, and took a generous sip finishing off what had been left of his ale. The act ended with him smacking his lips together. “Once we finish eating I want to stop and talk with Copper. Then, as soon as the horses are ready, we’ll be on our way.”

“I’m sorry, Wyn. I shouldn’t have told him there’d be extra coins involved.”

Blodwyn just smiled as he shook his head. “Most things are more important than coins.”

“I suppose our first business will be in the forest, then.” Quill spoke with his mouth full. He slid a piece of bread around on his plate, sopping up gravy before tossing it into his mouth, as well. He sucked more gravy off of his thumb and finger. “I need to tell the men about Anthony, and his courageous death against the Cavers. It has been a rough time for us. We’ve lost so many men.”

Mykal cocked his head to one side. With a mouth full of rabbit pie, he said, “So many men.” It wasn’t as much a question, as a comment he didn’t mean to voice out loud. He’d burned an Archer to death with his magic. He didn’t just blame himself for the death, he took on full responsibility. It was a regret—a weight—he’d carry forever.

“There was a hanging in Grey Ashland. Four of our men. That was just a week before you arrived searching for the mirror.” Quill uncurled his fingers; the fork fell, and clattered onto the empty plate.

Mykal choked down
un
chewed food, and cleared his throat. “I was there. The king said they were guilty, that they’d snuck into the realm intent on robbing the people, and worse.”

The server brought over a fresh loaf of bread. It looked like it was just out of the stone oven. Steam rose from the golden, butter split crust. “Will that be all?”

“The ales,” Blodwyn reminded her.

“Aye,” she said, and walked away.

“You were there?” Quill sat leaning forward, his shoulders swallowed his neck. “What do you mean? What does that mean?”

“Gary Slocum. Richard Styman. Carl Wondfraust. Thomas Blacksmith.” Mykal could not take his eyes off his uncle, as each name mentioned looked like it caused Quill pain. He winced as if daggers were being driven into his flesh.

“You remember their names?” Quill sounded surprised.

Mykal would never forget the names. Not now, and he understood why it had been so important. “Grandfather makes me. He cannot go to the executions. It’s just too far for him. He reminds me a million times to pay attention to the names, so when I return home I can tell him who was hung. I’d asked him over and over why it was important. He always dodged answering the question.”

Quill let his tongue slide over his upper lip almost thoughtfully as he relaxed his muscles, and then moved away from the table, leaning back in his chair. “Your grandfather was checking on his sons; keeping a finger on the pulse of the Archers.”

“He was checking on you and my father?”

Quill nodded.