The Portal Problem
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eReader / EPUB
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Kindle / MOBI
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1. SPARKED CURIOSITY
A glimmer below the ripples caught his eye. Something among the silt and stones winked at Aston with reflected sunlight and then was gone again as mossy algae shifted with the current. He glanced ahead and saw Draessellor hadn’t slowed at all while crossing the river, so he assumed it would be safe to stop and investigate for a moment or two. The old lizard definitely would have stopped if what was between the stones was magical.
“Why did you stop?” Shyla asked from his shoulder.
“I saw something,” he replied. The currently small-sized Fairy jumped off and hovered nearby, looking down where he was staring to see if she could spot what he was talking about. When she did spot the reflection, she frowned and turned in the air to study the horizon where the river likely started from.
“This river looks like it comes from the same mountain as the ruins,” she said after a moment.
Aston bent over to see if there was a shape of anything familiar around the glimmer. Maybe if there was something giving a better idea of he shape of what might be stuck in the river. For how shiny it was, it might be jewelry or some kind of plate. He reasoned that it could be useful to sell or trade in the next town.
“You remember the ruins?” Shyla asked loudly, zipping down to hover by his shoulder. “The ruins we added two weeks to our travels to avoid?” She asked even louder, directly into Aston’s ear, clapping along with each word. Her frown deepened when he didn’t even nod absently.
“Ouch!” He straightened quickly and glared at her, rubbing his neck where she’d smacked him with the tiny switch she kept for just that reason.
“You’re not allowed to touch things,” she stated, arms crossed and a glare matching his on her little face.
“I wasn’t going to –”
“Your hand was almost in the water.”
“That doesn’t mean I –”
“Cursed portal stones?” she said, cocking one tiny eyebrow at him.
“I didn’t know they were –”
“Cursed dagger?” she continued.
“Draessellor found someone to –”
“Cursed hat?” she asked.
“Look, that wasn’t even me because the merchant put it –”
“You’re not allowed to touch things anymore,” she repeated. “Three months I’ve traveled with you and Draessellor, and he’s the only reason you’re not cursed at least seven times over.”
“It hasn’t been that many times,” he argued. It was a half-hearted reply at best because he was already looking at the glimmer again. “Besides, if it wants me to pick it up so badly, and Draessellor walked right past it without complaining about something magic in the water, then –”
“Hold up,” she said, flying directly into his face and breaking his stare at the object reflecting up at him by flitting back and forth to stare at him in one of his eyes and then the other. “What do you mean it wants you to pick it up?” Shyla demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Uh,” he stammered, straightening up and away from reaching toward the water again. Shyla followed him up, staying in his face the entire time. “I mean… well… it’s just an inviting glimmer and it might be something we can sell or trade, right?”
She eyed him even harder. He looked away from her stare, eyes dropping toward his feet as the nervous shuffling started. A second glimmer appeared at the toe of his boot and he felt a shudder against the bottom of his foot. It felt like the stones he was standing on had shivered… or what was under them had…
“Draessellor! Aston’s reaching to touch something shiny in the river!” Shyla yelled as she zipped away toward the old mercenary. Shouting wasn’t something she needed to do, he’d already stopped when he’d heard them talking about cursed items and was now stomping back through the water.
Aston didn’t hear her. He also didn’t notice his guide, protector and teacher’s pace increase while splashing in his direction. The underwater sword really did want him to pick it up. Most of his mind wondered how he knew it was a sword under the stones and silt and algae and water, but part of him just felt relieved at having finally been found by the right person. No more would Aston need to be using the hated stolen sword, because this one had been waiting for him and now they’d found each other so –
He fell back as a surge of water doused every part of him not previously underwater. Aston came back up to sitting, splashing and sputtering as cold water ran under his armor and soaked his clothes. The shallow river’s icy temperature shifted his shock immediately to rage and Aston opened his mouth to verbally retaliate at his mentor and protector. The words never left his throat. The tip of Draessellor’s massive sword was a hair’s width from touching the end of his nose, clear water still running off the side of it in a sheet.
“Where is it?” The old lizard growled his question to Shyla, one of his eyes already scouring the river bed as the other stayed locked on Aston.
She didn’t have a chance to answer. In one moment, Draessellor was standing with a sword in one hand and nothing in the other. In the next, his empty hand was outstretched and holding an arrow. The fletching trembled from the sudden stop and the sharp tip was well short of its intended target: the old lizard’s throat. Faster than a blink his heavy sword snapped to a position pointing at the trees they’d just come from.
Aston checked the arrow’s travel direction in a glance and threw himself to the opposite side of Draessellor from where it had originated. The old lizard nodded a quick bob of approval for not having to command the Low Prince into staying out of harm’s way this time.
Shyla zipped up and across the water to the treeline, scanning every direction as she hurried from a league upstream to twice that far downstream, and then looking back to Draessellor with a shrug only the old lizard could see at such a distance. She couldn’t see who was hiding below the thick tree branches from above them, and it wouldn’t be safe for her to flit down and check under the branches while so far away from her traveling companions.
The old mercenary tilted his head to listen and flicked out his tongue to taste any scents in the air. For the whole morning the breeze had been in their faces, now at their backs, so scent was useless. He tilted his head a bit further to listen better and, after a moment, focused on a single spot not very distant upstream. His gaze followed whatever sounds he was hearing, his eyes slowly and deliberately tracing the whole bank behind them along the trees to a nearly equal distance downstream. He growled in the back of his throat as he lowered his sword.
“Stand up. Draw no weapons,” he quietly ordered Aston.
The young prince tried to use getting up as the needed excuse to pick up the sword in the river, but Draessellor had one foot in the middle of the blade. Aston was just as annoyed as the sword. He stood up with a grimace, hands empty and river water pouring out of the stitched joins in his leather armor, and looked around the large Reptilian to see if he could spot the shimmer of Shyla’s wings along the bank.
Draessellor attempted to gesture for Shyla to fly back but was still holding the arrow. With an annoyed huff he snapped the arrow between his fingers and dropped it, then gestured to Shyla. She zipped back from a treetop perch to settle in her usual place on Aston’s shoulder, jumped off with a yelp because the leather was cold and wet, then landed carefully on the single place on Draessellor’s armor where he allowed her to perch.
“Release the Human and go!” The shout came from the first place Draessellor had looked. It sounded well intentioned, and seemed definitely confident of those words being the appropriate greeting.
Aston and Draessellor exchanged a glance. “I’m his apprentice. I’m not a captive,” Aston called back from his usual place during confrontations: whatever place the old lizard could protect easily. (Often that place was behind the big mercenary, and always it was below the swing of his sword arm.)
There was a murmuring Aston could hear which traveled from the upstream point beyond the riverbank to another point almost directly in front of where the trio waited in the water. A few branches rustled and a person emerged from the treeline where the murmur had stopped.
“I ordered you to stay back!” the well intentioned and confident voice shouted, but now it sounded angry.
The person who stepped out was dressed in leather and chain mail armor, and carried a bow along with a full quiver of arrows on their back. They had a sword and a couple of knives on their belt, and their cloak seemed the same color as whatever they were standing closest to. The shade of it shifted from lush green to river stone gray as they stepped forward.
“Which country has your support?” the person with the color-shifting cloak called.
“None. We’re travelers,” Draessellor answered. There were a few hard sounding laughs among the trees, but nobody else stepped forward.
“We hear that lie often,” the person stated as they took their bow to hand. “Which country has your support?” they asked again, drawing an arrow into firing position.
“We’re from the desert,” Aston said quickly, hoping an actual explanation would be better than Draessellor’s usual short replies. “Well, we’re not, I mean, not from there, but we started this trip in the desert. Um. We crossed the Long Plain, and used that pass for coming through the mountains.” He pointed back they way they’d come over the last couple of months. “We’re taking this pass out of the mountains,” he continued, pointing the direction they had previously been going. “And once we’re out of the mountains we’re going to cross the Small Plain to the coast. Once we get to the ocean we’ll be turning south.”
The archer tilted their head to the side. Their helmet made it impossible to see their face, but it was clear from body language just how baffled their expression would be if it could be seen. “That’s a five-month journey from the desert across the Long Plain to here,” they said, their voice as full of confusion as their posture. “Why?”
“Well, you see, I… uh...” Aston realized his hands were still gesturing even though his voice had stopped and quickly pulled them back to his sides.
“Cursed magic sent him to the desert. I’m taking him home,” Draessellor said. Aston’s stomach shriveled a bit. Even without inflection, Draessellor’s casual statement about the cursed portal stones still felt like an accusation.
A glimmer below the ripples caught his eye. Something among the silt and stones winked at Aston with reflected sunlight and then was gone again as mossy algae shifted with the current. He glanced ahead and saw Draessellor hadn’t slowed at all while crossing the river, so he assumed it would be safe to stop and investigate for a moment or two. The old lizard definitely would have stopped if what was between the stones was magical.
“Why did you stop?” Shyla asked from his shoulder.
“I saw something,” he replied. The currently small-sized Fairy jumped off and hovered nearby, looking down where he was staring to see if she could spot what he was talking about. When she did spot the reflection, she frowned and turned in the air to study the horizon where the river likely started from.
“This river looks like it comes from the same mountain as the ruins,” she said after a moment.
Aston bent over to see if there was a shape of anything familiar around the glimmer. Maybe if there was something giving a better idea of he shape of what might be stuck in the river. For how shiny it was, it might be jewelry or some kind of plate. He reasoned that it could be useful to sell or trade in the next town.
“You remember the ruins?” Shyla asked loudly, zipping down to hover by his shoulder. “The ruins we added two weeks to our travels to avoid?” She asked even louder, directly into Aston’s ear, clapping along with each word. Her frown deepened when he didn’t even nod absently.
“Ouch!” He straightened quickly and glared at her, rubbing his neck where she’d smacked him with the tiny switch she kept for just that reason.
“You’re not allowed to touch things,” she stated, arms crossed and a glare matching his on her little face.
“I wasn’t going to –”
“Your hand was almost in the water.”
“That doesn’t mean I –”
“Cursed portal stones?” she said, cocking one tiny eyebrow at him.
“I didn’t know they were –”
“Cursed dagger?” she continued.
“Draessellor found someone to –”
“Cursed hat?” she asked.
“Look, that wasn’t even me because the merchant put it –”
“You’re not allowed to touch things anymore,” she repeated. “Three months I’ve traveled with you and Draessellor, and he’s the only reason you’re not cursed at least seven times over.”
“It hasn’t been that many times,” he argued. It was a half-hearted reply at best because he was already looking at the glimmer again. “Besides, if it wants me to pick it up so badly, and Draessellor walked right past it without complaining about something magic in the water, then –”
“Hold up,” she said, flying directly into his face and breaking his stare at the object reflecting up at him by flitting back and forth to stare at him in one of his eyes and then the other. “What do you mean it wants you to pick it up?” Shyla demanded, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Uh,” he stammered, straightening up and away from reaching toward the water again. Shyla followed him up, staying in his face the entire time. “I mean… well… it’s just an inviting glimmer and it might be something we can sell or trade, right?”
She eyed him even harder. He looked away from her stare, eyes dropping toward his feet as the nervous shuffling started. A second glimmer appeared at the toe of his boot and he felt a shudder against the bottom of his foot. It felt like the stones he was standing on had shivered… or what was under them had…
“Draessellor! Aston’s reaching to touch something shiny in the river!” Shyla yelled as she zipped away toward the old mercenary. Shouting wasn’t something she needed to do, he’d already stopped when he’d heard them talking about cursed items and was now stomping back through the water.
Aston didn’t hear her. He also didn’t notice his guide, protector and teacher’s pace increase while splashing in his direction. The underwater sword really did want him to pick it up. Most of his mind wondered how he knew it was a sword under the stones and silt and algae and water, but part of him just felt relieved at having finally been found by the right person. No more would Aston need to be using the hated stolen sword, because this one had been waiting for him and now they’d found each other so –
He fell back as a surge of water doused every part of him not previously underwater. Aston came back up to sitting, splashing and sputtering as cold water ran under his armor and soaked his clothes. The shallow river’s icy temperature shifted his shock immediately to rage and Aston opened his mouth to verbally retaliate at his mentor and protector. The words never left his throat. The tip of Draessellor’s massive sword was a hair’s width from touching the end of his nose, clear water still running off the side of it in a sheet.
“Where is it?” The old lizard growled his question to Shyla, one of his eyes already scouring the river bed as the other stayed locked on Aston.
She didn’t have a chance to answer. In one moment, Draessellor was standing with a sword in one hand and nothing in the other. In the next, his empty hand was outstretched and holding an arrow. The fletching trembled from the sudden stop and the sharp tip was well short of its intended target: the old lizard’s throat. Faster than a blink his heavy sword snapped to a position pointing at the trees they’d just come from.
Aston checked the arrow’s travel direction in a glance and threw himself to the opposite side of Draessellor from where it had originated. The old lizard nodded a quick bob of approval for not having to command the Low Prince into staying out of harm’s way this time.
Shyla zipped up and across the water to the treeline, scanning every direction as she hurried from a league upstream to twice that far downstream, and then looking back to Draessellor with a shrug only the old lizard could see at such a distance. She couldn’t see who was hiding below the thick tree branches from above them, and it wouldn’t be safe for her to flit down and check under the branches while so far away from her traveling companions.
The old mercenary tilted his head to listen and flicked out his tongue to taste any scents in the air. For the whole morning the breeze had been in their faces, now at their backs, so scent was useless. He tilted his head a bit further to listen better and, after a moment, focused on a single spot not very distant upstream. His gaze followed whatever sounds he was hearing, his eyes slowly and deliberately tracing the whole bank behind them along the trees to a nearly equal distance downstream. He growled in the back of his throat as he lowered his sword.
“Stand up. Draw no weapons,” he quietly ordered Aston.
The young prince tried to use getting up as the needed excuse to pick up the sword in the river, but Draessellor had one foot in the middle of the blade. Aston was just as annoyed as the sword. He stood up with a grimace, hands empty and river water pouring out of the stitched joins in his leather armor, and looked around the large Reptilian to see if he could spot the shimmer of Shyla’s wings along the bank.
Draessellor attempted to gesture for Shyla to fly back but was still holding the arrow. With an annoyed huff he snapped the arrow between his fingers and dropped it, then gestured to Shyla. She zipped back from a treetop perch to settle in her usual place on Aston’s shoulder, jumped off with a yelp because the leather was cold and wet, then landed carefully on the single place on Draessellor’s armor where he allowed her to perch.
“Release the Human and go!” The shout came from the first place Draessellor had looked. It sounded well intentioned, and seemed definitely confident of those words being the appropriate greeting.
Aston and Draessellor exchanged a glance. “I’m his apprentice. I’m not a captive,” Aston called back from his usual place during confrontations: whatever place the old lizard could protect easily. (Often that place was behind the big mercenary, and always it was below the swing of his sword arm.)
There was a murmuring Aston could hear which traveled from the upstream point beyond the riverbank to another point almost directly in front of where the trio waited in the water. A few branches rustled and a person emerged from the treeline where the murmur had stopped.
“I ordered you to stay back!” the well intentioned and confident voice shouted, but now it sounded angry.
The person who stepped out was dressed in leather and chain mail armor, and carried a bow along with a full quiver of arrows on their back. They had a sword and a couple of knives on their belt, and their cloak seemed the same color as whatever they were standing closest to. The shade of it shifted from lush green to river stone gray as they stepped forward.
“Which country has your support?” the person with the color-shifting cloak called.
“None. We’re travelers,” Draessellor answered. There were a few hard sounding laughs among the trees, but nobody else stepped forward.
“We hear that lie often,” the person stated as they took their bow to hand. “Which country has your support?” they asked again, drawing an arrow into firing position.
“We’re from the desert,” Aston said quickly, hoping an actual explanation would be better than Draessellor’s usual short replies. “Well, we’re not, I mean, not from there, but we started this trip in the desert. Um. We crossed the Long Plain, and used that pass for coming through the mountains.” He pointed back they way they’d come over the last couple of months. “We’re taking this pass out of the mountains,” he continued, pointing the direction they had previously been going. “And once we’re out of the mountains we’re going to cross the Small Plain to the coast. Once we get to the ocean we’ll be turning south.”
The archer tilted their head to the side. Their helmet made it impossible to see their face, but it was clear from body language just how baffled their expression would be if it could be seen. “That’s a five-month journey from the desert across the Long Plain to here,” they said, their voice as full of confusion as their posture. “Why?”
“Well, you see, I… uh...” Aston realized his hands were still gesturing even though his voice had stopped and quickly pulled them back to his sides.
“Cursed magic sent him to the desert. I’m taking him home,” Draessellor said. Aston’s stomach shriveled a bit. Even without inflection, Draessellor’s casual statement about the cursed portal stones still felt like an accusation.
2. A SWORD
“And you’re just a good samaritan returning him to his mum?” the archer asked, laughing loudly at the end of it. More laughs burst out from the trees.
Draessellor bristled at the few sneers about ransom and accusations of abduction that whispered loudly along the river bank. Aston heard scales shifting inside armor and the creak of a gauntlet stretching taut as the mercenary’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“Draessellor is as near to me as family,” the Low Prince announced as he stepped from behind the big Reptilian. “I was lucky he was located close enough to find me where I’d been lost. He’s been my protector, guide and mentor while returning me home.”
Aston felt… he didn’t know. He’d thought he’d felt angry each of the very few times anyone had laughed at the old lizard since they’d begun traveling together, but this anger vibrated inside him. The laughter and jests silencing at his declaration was satisfying, but having his sword hand empty as he spoke left him hollow. Speaking with the tenor and command in his voice that he remembered hearing whenever his older brother spoke while leading their country’s army gave him a surge of pride, but an unwelcome thought hung in his mind and asked what exactly he expected his voice to sound like if not that…?
The archer came back to a position of attack slowly, warily, their aim uncertain and split between the Human and the Reptilian. “So which country has your support?” they asked, repeating the question from earlier.
“Neither of those concerned with the disputed border we’re standing on,” Aston answered. “Our destination is far to the south. Send someone to accompany us as far as you wish, but our journey continues to the coast.”
Draessellor’s nearest eye snapped down to stare at the top of Aston’s head. Honestly, the Low Prince didn’t know how he’d known about the disputed border either so wouldn’t have been able to answer even if the old lizard asked him about it.
Slowly, Draessellor’s head tilted forward and he stared at the stones around his feet, then he turned enough to look with both eyes at the young prince entrusted to his care. Aston didn’t even notice the examination as he was still focused on the archer. The person in the color-shifting cloak had decided to keep their aim at the Human and Aston didn’t want to receive an arrow.
“Crinsol!” There was a crackling among the trees upstream and the owner of the first voice to have spoken stepped out onto the riverbank. They were wearing the same style of cloak as the archer, but theirs wasn’t changing color as they moved forward. “I order you back into ranks!”
“Oh, please, Droffer,” the archer said with disdain. “If not for your father you wouldn’t even command your reflection. You two” – Crinsol, the archer, gestured with the tip of his arrow at Draessellor and Aston – “are coming back to camp for further questioning.”
“Why?” Aston challenged. The breeze changed direction, blowing cool air into his face and chilling him all over again due to being completely soaked. He saw Draessellor’s tongue flicking out to catch any scents from the new air.
“Because your lies sound exactly like the words of spies,” Crinsol said.
Aston was about to respond, but Draessellor’s hand enveloped his shoulder as a physical restraint. “Some of their armor smells of Dwarven oils,” the old lizard murmured. Aston glanced up at him with a silent question. “The best smiths from the desert to the coast are the Dwarves in these mountains,” Draessellor explained. His gaze turned down to the water at his feet and then back to holding eye contact with Aston meaningfully.
“You mean I can pick up the…?” Aston asked quickly, eagerly, pointing down.
The old lizard released his shoulder and took two steps toward the bank where Crinsol and Droffer were arguing between each other, his tail wrapping close to his legs and clear of the sword in the water. “We accept your peaceful offer of hospitality,” Draessellor announced as he dried his sword. The argument stopped and they both stared at him. Aston could hear Shyla snickering in the sudden silence, otherwise only broken by Draessellor sheathing his heavy blade.
“Hospitality?!” Crinsol exclaimed.
“Peaceful hospitality,” Draessellor stated with a nod of agreement. He spread his hands in the friendly gesture Aston had seen him use twice before when greeting mercenaries he was familiar with.
Shyla snickered louder as Crinsol backed a step so quickly they almost looked like they were jumping. Aston shared a grin with the Fairy tucked against Draessellor’s armor as he reached into the water to retrieve his sword. The sigh wasn’t his as his hand wrapped the hilt, but the knot in his chest released anyway.
“It’s a sword?” Shyla asked, flitting over to cling to his shoulder, curiosity beating her distaste of being cold and wet for the moment.
“It is,” he answered as he pulled it out of the river. “It’s my sword,” he added, smiling at the rust and murk covering the entire weapon in his hand.
“I can see why Draessellor let you have it,” she said sarcastically. “It’s a perfect weapon for a prince like you.”
Aston completely agreed with the sword that it absolutely was a perfect weapon for a prince like him.
“Come,” Draessellor ordered. Aston beamed a smile at his mentor’s back and slogged forward, toward the riverbank they had already left behind once.
The camp they were brought to was smaller than expected and perched on the edge of a village. The village was full of people who only stayed outside as long as needed to hurry from place to place without making eye contact with anyone else. The surrounding fields were full of trampled crops and bordered by scorched trees. Half of one field looked recently converted into a tented hospital, tarp-covered morgue, and newly made cemetery. The rest of the camp was staked into what had been fields on the other side of the hospital, those tents arranged like talons clinging to the edges of damaged buildings on that side of the village.
As with town populations on the other side of the pass, nearest the Long Plain, most of these soldiers looked like Humans and Half-Human Elves. The villagers, however, looked Dwarven, Human and Orcish – and many appeared to be mixes of the three.
Crinsol led the way to a bustling smithy’s shop located among the most damaged buildings. A large section of roof and wall were missing, providing a clear view of the forges and smiths inside all working closer together than looked safe (especially to Aston’s non-expert gaze). Half of them came out when one noticed the returning troops, the other half barely glanced out before returning to their work.
“Shackles for the hurk!” Crinsol’s arrogant command ended abruptly and – from the looks of confusion on the smiths’ faces – was incomplete. Aston had learned months ago Draessellor’s hand snapping out to seize someone by their throat and lift them a great deal higher than the ground they were accustomed to standing on had that effect on speaking patterns.
The archer counterattacked before fully recovering and was still choking as their knife pinged. The blade flicked to the ground after snapping clean off from the hilt against one of Draessellor’s dragon-scale bracers. The old lizard dropped Crinsol, watching with one eye as they crumpled, coughing and gasping, to the ground.
Droffer stumbled forward, shoved steps closer to the dispute by nearby soldiers. Draessellor turned his head enough to keep one eye on the archer and twisted the other eye to stare down at the commander.
“I accepted your peaceful hospitality,” the old lizard threatened, one taloned hand wrapping the hilt of his sword.
“I, uh”– Droffer cleared his throat –“assure you Crinsol spoke, erm, out of… turn?”
Aston noted that Droffer appeared fully Human and was slightly taller than Aston, but possibly half again as wide, so was also a great deal smaller than the Reptilian. A fact the commander appeared very, very aware of now that he was standing so close. Aston tried not to feel the twinge of superiority at having gotten used to the small-boulder sized mercenary.
“This village is besieged, old lizard!” One of the smiths still indoors yelled through the broken wall. Aston looked over to see a Dwarf was the speaker, and that a hammer wielding Orc was protecting the Dwarf’s position at the gap in the wall so they could yell. “I offer my service to you as a smith to the end of my days if you free this village! Pledged as the Master Smith I am, and the grandson of the Master Smith who forged the rings of the armor you wear!”
His offer of employment was punctuated and interrupted by the scuffle the Orc behind him was having, but the Dwarf’s words had an effect. Aston was suddenly standing alone. Draessellor had snapped his whole body into motion and cut down a swath of the nearest soldiers. They’d all been three steps away. In another blink, double the first amount of new enemies joined the mess of bodies on the ground and the old mercenary was strides into a third swing.
The sword in Aston’s hand hummed, almost leaping of its own agenda to block the strike Crinsol made from their knees. Much to the surprise of both Human combatants, the old sword rang a pure note as the archer’s sword was deflected. Knowing he was less than good at sword work, Aston quickly backed far enough away to be clear of Crinsol’s low attacks. The archer sprang to their feet and lunged, completely ruining the young prince’s plan to retreat to safety.
Draessellor was already much too far away to run to, and up close Aston could see Crinsol’s grin through their helmet slits as they realized the same thing. The archer moved too fast for Aston to retrieve his good sword, so the prince blocked the incoming strikes with the old sword from the river. He was able to lock blades for a moment and… feel his sword vibrating with questions wondering of why he wasn’t striking back?
“Shyla, go help the Dwarf in the smithy,” Aston ordered. She flung out from her hiding place against his neck in a shimmer of fluttering wings. Crinsol only blinked in surprise, but it was enough of a distraction that Aston could shove them off balance and attack with a few strikes of his own.
Rust and mud flaked off to reveal a nearly perfect blade beneath as they traded blows. Absolute chaos was rising up around them in the form of villagers emptying into the streets and fields. Whatever tools and weapons they could grab in the moment became their weapons of choice. Aston ducked under and deflected away attempted strikes of other soldiers passing by while still fully engaged with Crinsol.
The archer was fast and tough, but nowhere near as quick or powerful as Draessellor could be during Aston’s nightly training. A few more swings and a hard kick from Aston sent Crinsol sprawling. Two nearby soldiers leapt in to defend the archer and Aston stepped back to a better position for fighting them both. A grin he couldn’t stop from spreading across his face definitely unnerved them. He couldn’t help it, squaring off against them together was almost the exact spacing of facing Draessellor during the evenings when he wielded two swords. With Crinsol still coughing and struggling to rise, they both looked a great deal less than confident at the rescue attempt. With his new sword singing in his hand, and the sudden realization these past months had made him better than decently good at fighting, Aston lunged.
“And you’re just a good samaritan returning him to his mum?” the archer asked, laughing loudly at the end of it. More laughs burst out from the trees.
Draessellor bristled at the few sneers about ransom and accusations of abduction that whispered loudly along the river bank. Aston heard scales shifting inside armor and the creak of a gauntlet stretching taut as the mercenary’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword.
“Draessellor is as near to me as family,” the Low Prince announced as he stepped from behind the big Reptilian. “I was lucky he was located close enough to find me where I’d been lost. He’s been my protector, guide and mentor while returning me home.”
Aston felt… he didn’t know. He’d thought he’d felt angry each of the very few times anyone had laughed at the old lizard since they’d begun traveling together, but this anger vibrated inside him. The laughter and jests silencing at his declaration was satisfying, but having his sword hand empty as he spoke left him hollow. Speaking with the tenor and command in his voice that he remembered hearing whenever his older brother spoke while leading their country’s army gave him a surge of pride, but an unwelcome thought hung in his mind and asked what exactly he expected his voice to sound like if not that…?
The archer came back to a position of attack slowly, warily, their aim uncertain and split between the Human and the Reptilian. “So which country has your support?” they asked, repeating the question from earlier.
“Neither of those concerned with the disputed border we’re standing on,” Aston answered. “Our destination is far to the south. Send someone to accompany us as far as you wish, but our journey continues to the coast.”
Draessellor’s nearest eye snapped down to stare at the top of Aston’s head. Honestly, the Low Prince didn’t know how he’d known about the disputed border either so wouldn’t have been able to answer even if the old lizard asked him about it.
Slowly, Draessellor’s head tilted forward and he stared at the stones around his feet, then he turned enough to look with both eyes at the young prince entrusted to his care. Aston didn’t even notice the examination as he was still focused on the archer. The person in the color-shifting cloak had decided to keep their aim at the Human and Aston didn’t want to receive an arrow.
“Crinsol!” There was a crackling among the trees upstream and the owner of the first voice to have spoken stepped out onto the riverbank. They were wearing the same style of cloak as the archer, but theirs wasn’t changing color as they moved forward. “I order you back into ranks!”
“Oh, please, Droffer,” the archer said with disdain. “If not for your father you wouldn’t even command your reflection. You two” – Crinsol, the archer, gestured with the tip of his arrow at Draessellor and Aston – “are coming back to camp for further questioning.”
“Why?” Aston challenged. The breeze changed direction, blowing cool air into his face and chilling him all over again due to being completely soaked. He saw Draessellor’s tongue flicking out to catch any scents from the new air.
“Because your lies sound exactly like the words of spies,” Crinsol said.
Aston was about to respond, but Draessellor’s hand enveloped his shoulder as a physical restraint. “Some of their armor smells of Dwarven oils,” the old lizard murmured. Aston glanced up at him with a silent question. “The best smiths from the desert to the coast are the Dwarves in these mountains,” Draessellor explained. His gaze turned down to the water at his feet and then back to holding eye contact with Aston meaningfully.
“You mean I can pick up the…?” Aston asked quickly, eagerly, pointing down.
The old lizard released his shoulder and took two steps toward the bank where Crinsol and Droffer were arguing between each other, his tail wrapping close to his legs and clear of the sword in the water. “We accept your peaceful offer of hospitality,” Draessellor announced as he dried his sword. The argument stopped and they both stared at him. Aston could hear Shyla snickering in the sudden silence, otherwise only broken by Draessellor sheathing his heavy blade.
“Hospitality?!” Crinsol exclaimed.
“Peaceful hospitality,” Draessellor stated with a nod of agreement. He spread his hands in the friendly gesture Aston had seen him use twice before when greeting mercenaries he was familiar with.
Shyla snickered louder as Crinsol backed a step so quickly they almost looked like they were jumping. Aston shared a grin with the Fairy tucked against Draessellor’s armor as he reached into the water to retrieve his sword. The sigh wasn’t his as his hand wrapped the hilt, but the knot in his chest released anyway.
“It’s a sword?” Shyla asked, flitting over to cling to his shoulder, curiosity beating her distaste of being cold and wet for the moment.
“It is,” he answered as he pulled it out of the river. “It’s my sword,” he added, smiling at the rust and murk covering the entire weapon in his hand.
“I can see why Draessellor let you have it,” she said sarcastically. “It’s a perfect weapon for a prince like you.”
Aston completely agreed with the sword that it absolutely was a perfect weapon for a prince like him.
“Come,” Draessellor ordered. Aston beamed a smile at his mentor’s back and slogged forward, toward the riverbank they had already left behind once.
The camp they were brought to was smaller than expected and perched on the edge of a village. The village was full of people who only stayed outside as long as needed to hurry from place to place without making eye contact with anyone else. The surrounding fields were full of trampled crops and bordered by scorched trees. Half of one field looked recently converted into a tented hospital, tarp-covered morgue, and newly made cemetery. The rest of the camp was staked into what had been fields on the other side of the hospital, those tents arranged like talons clinging to the edges of damaged buildings on that side of the village.
As with town populations on the other side of the pass, nearest the Long Plain, most of these soldiers looked like Humans and Half-Human Elves. The villagers, however, looked Dwarven, Human and Orcish – and many appeared to be mixes of the three.
Crinsol led the way to a bustling smithy’s shop located among the most damaged buildings. A large section of roof and wall were missing, providing a clear view of the forges and smiths inside all working closer together than looked safe (especially to Aston’s non-expert gaze). Half of them came out when one noticed the returning troops, the other half barely glanced out before returning to their work.
“Shackles for the hurk!” Crinsol’s arrogant command ended abruptly and – from the looks of confusion on the smiths’ faces – was incomplete. Aston had learned months ago Draessellor’s hand snapping out to seize someone by their throat and lift them a great deal higher than the ground they were accustomed to standing on had that effect on speaking patterns.
The archer counterattacked before fully recovering and was still choking as their knife pinged. The blade flicked to the ground after snapping clean off from the hilt against one of Draessellor’s dragon-scale bracers. The old lizard dropped Crinsol, watching with one eye as they crumpled, coughing and gasping, to the ground.
Droffer stumbled forward, shoved steps closer to the dispute by nearby soldiers. Draessellor turned his head enough to keep one eye on the archer and twisted the other eye to stare down at the commander.
“I accepted your peaceful hospitality,” the old lizard threatened, one taloned hand wrapping the hilt of his sword.
“I, uh”– Droffer cleared his throat –“assure you Crinsol spoke, erm, out of… turn?”
Aston noted that Droffer appeared fully Human and was slightly taller than Aston, but possibly half again as wide, so was also a great deal smaller than the Reptilian. A fact the commander appeared very, very aware of now that he was standing so close. Aston tried not to feel the twinge of superiority at having gotten used to the small-boulder sized mercenary.
“This village is besieged, old lizard!” One of the smiths still indoors yelled through the broken wall. Aston looked over to see a Dwarf was the speaker, and that a hammer wielding Orc was protecting the Dwarf’s position at the gap in the wall so they could yell. “I offer my service to you as a smith to the end of my days if you free this village! Pledged as the Master Smith I am, and the grandson of the Master Smith who forged the rings of the armor you wear!”
His offer of employment was punctuated and interrupted by the scuffle the Orc behind him was having, but the Dwarf’s words had an effect. Aston was suddenly standing alone. Draessellor had snapped his whole body into motion and cut down a swath of the nearest soldiers. They’d all been three steps away. In another blink, double the first amount of new enemies joined the mess of bodies on the ground and the old mercenary was strides into a third swing.
The sword in Aston’s hand hummed, almost leaping of its own agenda to block the strike Crinsol made from their knees. Much to the surprise of both Human combatants, the old sword rang a pure note as the archer’s sword was deflected. Knowing he was less than good at sword work, Aston quickly backed far enough away to be clear of Crinsol’s low attacks. The archer sprang to their feet and lunged, completely ruining the young prince’s plan to retreat to safety.
Draessellor was already much too far away to run to, and up close Aston could see Crinsol’s grin through their helmet slits as they realized the same thing. The archer moved too fast for Aston to retrieve his good sword, so the prince blocked the incoming strikes with the old sword from the river. He was able to lock blades for a moment and… feel his sword vibrating with questions wondering of why he wasn’t striking back?
“Shyla, go help the Dwarf in the smithy,” Aston ordered. She flung out from her hiding place against his neck in a shimmer of fluttering wings. Crinsol only blinked in surprise, but it was enough of a distraction that Aston could shove them off balance and attack with a few strikes of his own.
Rust and mud flaked off to reveal a nearly perfect blade beneath as they traded blows. Absolute chaos was rising up around them in the form of villagers emptying into the streets and fields. Whatever tools and weapons they could grab in the moment became their weapons of choice. Aston ducked under and deflected away attempted strikes of other soldiers passing by while still fully engaged with Crinsol.
The archer was fast and tough, but nowhere near as quick or powerful as Draessellor could be during Aston’s nightly training. A few more swings and a hard kick from Aston sent Crinsol sprawling. Two nearby soldiers leapt in to defend the archer and Aston stepped back to a better position for fighting them both. A grin he couldn’t stop from spreading across his face definitely unnerved them. He couldn’t help it, squaring off against them together was almost the exact spacing of facing Draessellor during the evenings when he wielded two swords. With Crinsol still coughing and struggling to rise, they both looked a great deal less than confident at the rescue attempt. With his new sword singing in his hand, and the sudden realization these past months had made him better than decently good at fighting, Aston lunged.
