Chapter Nine
“Get the general,” Bareet said to his councilor while reading a note that had just been delivered by an elven scout. Bareet was sitting in his war room, surrounded by detailed maps of underground passages all about the island. The councilor returned a few minutes later, followed by an ancient dwarf. The old dwarf had a suit of nondescript plate armor, a helmet with wings fashioned on either side, and an axe with a head that was larger than Bareet himself. “Lebouf, me friend,” he said to the general, “I need ye to gather all the fighters. We need to go to Caryn an' help.”
“Aye, me liege. How many?”
Bareet looked at his general curiously, and at length said, “All o' them, ye fool!”
*******
Tystyl paced before the man. The king had been trying to extract information from him for the last hour. “Why does Tystyl, the great King of Caryn, care if a mere spy lives or not?” Kryzzl asked of the king.
“ I only require answers, I am not asking your life. You will live, dear Kryzzl, but it will be upon yourself whether your life will be worth the living. If you decide to help me, you may find freedom in this great land of Atalmor. Otherwise, I will escort you myself to Fael's tower. There, I fear you will not find much reprieve, for Fael is a foul one, who desires the highest power, the power over life and death. Your own life will be of little value to that one.” Kryzzl again sat in silence. Obstinate to the death, this one. Tystyl thought for a moment, and with a bow, said, “Then I will escort you to your master, and we will sort this out in his tower.”
The next morning, Tystyl, along with Wyrmwood, made sure the man's binds were secure, mounting him atop a fresh pony, took off. Kryzzl noted that the army he heard coming into the valley the night before was gone. Every last man.
The trio made haste for Fael's tower. On the way, when they stopped for a respite, the dwarf pulled Tystyl aside, saying, “Me son, I know ye have all that ye desire, but I had a lump o' special ore for many years before ye, wondering what I might make from it. Knowing ye need all the help ye can get, I had me friend Willy make somethin' for ye while I was in Jire.” As he was talking, he reached for the silken bundle he had brought. Handing the bundle to Tystyl, Wyrmwood then said, “May I present to ye, 'Infernous', named fer the flames imbued in her. ”
Tystyl slowly unwrapped the bundle, revealing the most marvelous sword he had ever seen. The blade was longer than his normal bastard swords, yet so much lighter than anything he had ever wielded. He checked the perfect balance of the sword, took it in his right hand, and swished it through the air in front of him. The green blade crackled with fire and light as it cut a path in the air.
“Superb!” Tystyl exclaimed.
“An' it'll ne'er leave yer hand. She's yours 'til you give her away.” Wyrmwood sat back, proud of the craftsmanship of this new blade.
The trio rode, out of the forests of Strungvali and back into the land of Caryn. Tystyl noted the lack of guards along the road going into Ravenwood, where they would stop for the night. When they arrived at southern entrance to the city, there was a blockade on the path, guarded by several patrolmen. Wyrmwood noticed something strange about these guards, something amiss in their eyes. Upon closer scrutiny, he observed their eyes were glazed over, as if they were all in some sort of trance.
Tystyl noticed the eyes of the patrolmen as well. Mind control, the king had seen this before when Fael had dominated a man on trial for murder, forcing the man to tell the truth of his crimes. Realizing they would either have to fight or somehow go around, the king dismounted his horse and approached the blockade. The guards made no moves as Tystyl got closer. “Step aside in the name of your king,” Tystyl called out when he was still a few yards away, giving himself room to maneuver if the guards decided to go against him.
“Our king has perished,” the one large guard standing in the middle of the line boomed. “The traitorous man was acting against Lord Fael and was eliminated.”
Tystyl was not surprised that the tale had been twisted to suit the wizard's cause. Anger began to fill the king's chest, resulting in a low growl as he drew his weapons. Wyrmwood, taking the hint, drew his axe as well, advancing to a better tactical position behind his son and to the left. The guards began to form an arch around the two seasoned fighters, spears lowering into position as they moved closer.
The first strike came from a guard flanking Wyrmwood on the left, a spear darting in low at the dwarf's ribs. Wyrmwood immediately deflected it. The entire scene exploded into action then, spears coming in here, being cut out there by a sword or an axe. Eight of the guards were eliminated, leaving the two biggest ones, who had not yet joined the battle. Now, the large one who spoke earlier faced off against Tystyl, spinning a huge axe in front of him, making circles in the air. Tystyl studied his opponent's movements for a few moments, watching for holes in the movements. Tystyl then burst into motion, he flipped his offhand blade, reversing his grip as he spun around into a low crouch, making himself as small as possible. He then waited only a brief moment before diving headlong into the the brute's attack, causing the man to lean to one side, overbalancing in the process.
The nimble king then planted one foot, changing direction and barreling into the reeling man's side, taking him hard to the ground. The man was wearing such heavy armor he was bound to be slow to get up. Tystyl planted his toes and went into an immediate roll, getting back to his feet before his rival could even react. A moment later, the guard had a green sword searing his exposed neck with immense heat, Tystyl sitting firmly on the man's chest. This immense pain brought him immediately out of his trance, making him recognize his error. “P-Please, King Tystyl,” the man stammered, “don't slay me, I beg you.”
Tystyl, still holding the Infernous to his guard's neck, replied, “I will spare you, as I need your help.” Wyrmwood was having a similar conversation with the opponent he had taken, although the man underneath the dwarf was in far worse condition. Tystyl shook his head at the sight.
“Do what I tell ye, damned fool!” Wyrmwood was roaring at the injured man, spittle flying off his lips stinging the man's eyes. Tystyl stood, still with a sword aimed at the guard he had pinned, and stepped over to his father. He saw the blood soaking the road beneath them.
“Get up, Father, he will do nothing now. Look at all the blood.”