“Pratchert hunted for the injured mother wolf, with a bow and arrow he had made out of a fallen limb and some sun dried rabbit gut. He managed to keep her and himself fed long enough for the two pups to wean themselves from the teat, but she died soon after that when a harsh, late winter storm hung over them for a few long days.
“When the weather finally relented, Pratchert found that one of the pups had disappeared. Knowing that he did all he could for the wolves, he started south again with the last of the pups right on his heels.”
Vaegon shifted on his rocky seat, leaned forward, and prodded the dying fire back to life with a stick.
“Somehow, he and the wolf ended up cutting east through the forest your people call the Reyhall.”
“Not my people,” Hyden corrected. He couldn’t help but stare at Vaegon’s wild yellow eyes. They were like cat’s eyes, or an owl’s. “My people aren’t kingdom folk.”
“Yes, yes,” the elf nodded. “I forget that all of you humans are not sworn to a king. Anyway, Pratchert took his time. He and the wolf wandered the forest for a few years. No one really knows why.”
Hyden almost stopped Vaegon to tell him that though he wasn’t sworn to a human king, his people did reside in the Giant Mountains, and were more or less sworn to obey the laws of King Aldar. He let it go though, because he had never actually seen the giant king, or the fabled city of Afdeon, where he ruled from; much less had he ever sworn any sort of oath of fealty.
“…finally crossed the Leif Greyn River, and made it to the Spire.” Vaegon was saying. “There, our lore says that Pratchert was visited by a great, blue dragon. The two of them supposedly spoke for many days.
“After the dragon flew away, Pratchert and his wolf came through the Evermore Forest. He was traveling toward his childhood home, but before they could get that far south, they encountered a problem. His wolf familiar’s thick, white fur was making the animal sick in the warmer climate. Even after it had shed its winter coat, the wolf was suffering in the warm southern air. After much deliberation, Pratchert and his wolf decided to stay together. He used his dagger to trim the fur from the wolf’s hide so that it could stand the heat. It was for the best they both learned. When they came into Pratchert’s village, the people were afraid of the wolf, even though he looked more like a mangy dog now, than the ferocious creature he could be. If he hadn’t been half shaved, he would’ve terrified the simple folk to drastic measures.
“Pratchert learned that his father had died of a lung sickness the year after he had returned with the king’s prize bear skin. His mother had died the year after that. Naturally, he was saddened by the news, and he returned with his wolf and his grief to the Evermore Forest. He planned on going north so that he and the wolf could range and explore in comfort, but before they could get away, they were stopped by a pair of frightened squirrels.
“The squirrels communicated with him through the link he had formed with his wolf. They told him that men were destroying the forest in the east, and they practically begged him to help them make it stop.
“He took them seriously. It was no small matter that would cause a pair of squirrels to grow brave enough to approach a wolf and a man. Other animals heard the squirrels’ pleadings, and since the wolf hadn’t tried to eat them, they cautiously approached as well. Soon, a crowd of birds, deer, a fox, a rabbit, even a bright green tree snake and a wild hog had gathered around them. They convinced Pratchert to at least go and see what might be done about the matter.”
Vaegon sipped from the water skin and then continued.
“Pratchert and the wolf were sickened by what they found there. An entire valley had been cleared of foliage. It looked as if an angry god had hacked away the trees with a giant scythe like they were so much wheat.
“Pratchert rounded up all of the strongest forest creatures, the ones with teeth and claws, and the ones with venom and size. One day, while the men were starting to chop and saw at the trees, Pratchert led his army of animals out of the forest. They took a position and held firm, directly in the men’s way. The terrified men sent for their foreman, who in turn, sent for the Captain of the King’s Guard. Days passed, and eventually King Horst had to come to see this spectacle for himself.
“For days, hissed and growled insults, and the foul worded threats of men were hurled back and forth. Luckily, King Horst saw that they were getting nowhere. His need of these timbers was as great as that of the animals, so he agreed to talk to Pratchert.
“The king explained that an army of demons and devils, led by the Abbadon himself, was marching towards them as they spoke. They were coming for the Wardstone. He told him of the need for catapults, spears, ships and all the other devices the men of the world might need to fight such an enemy. He spoke of how this foe had burned everything in its path: homes, crops, and even the forest. King Horst ended his speech by suggesting that it would be better to take a few of the trees, than to let all of the forest be burned to ash by this evil foe.
“Pratchert went back to the animals and explained the situation. They agreed that losing some of the forest was better than losing all of it. Reluctantly, the animal army disbanded, and the creatures began to migrate from that part of the Evermore so that the men could continue.
“King Horst was so astonished and impressed with the man who could speak to animals, that he asked him to come and be his wizard. Pratchert felt bound to help fight the Abbadon and the terrible legions it commanded. When he found out that King Horst’s castle was located in the city of Xwarda, up in the Wander Mountains where the weather was cool and crisp, he had to accept the offer. You know the rest, I think,” Vaegon finished.
“Aye,” Hyden nodded. “When the soulless one came, Dahg Mahn called forth the animals from the forest. The animals brought the giants, elves, and dwarves with them. In Berda’s tale – she’s a giant, a goat herder’s wife who comes to my clan’s village and tells us stories every so often. In her tales of Dahg Mahn, the animals turn the tide of the battle and save the races of men from the Abbadon.”
Hyden yawned and scratched his head curiously.
“If his name is really Pratchert, why is he always remembered as Dahg Mahn?”
Vaegon laughed deeply.
“I should make you wait and ask your giant friend Berda, but I’m starting to like you, so I’ll tell you, Hyden Hawk. It’s really simple, and I’m surprised you haven’t figured it out yet. The wolf looked like a mangy dog,” Vaegon said, as he moved to lay down by the fire. “And Dahg Mahn means “dog man” in the old tongue.”
“Ah,” Hyden nodded, as he too found a place to lie down for the night.
The coronation of young King Glendar went smoothly enough. The sadness of the past week was replaced by the hope for a greater future. The good people of Westland, for a few days at least, were led to believe that the days to come still held promise. The ladies and wives of the noble born and common folk alike were busy with their gossip. It appeared that Lady Zasha had caught the young King’s eye, and they all had a comment to make about the development.
“She’s such a beautiful girl.”
“What a wonderful queen she will make.”
“With fat Lord Ellrich as her father, what will the heir look like?”
“The daughter of the marsh lord has done well to draw his eye.”
Then there was Glendar himself. The whole of the nobility watched him, as he grimaced and clutched at his face and then finally broke into tears when his father’s crown was placed upon his head. The outcome pleased Pael immensely. The stupid boy had grinned as the crown was presented. Pael had had to act quickly. He sent an invisible, but sizzling hot particle of dust, into Glendar’s eye, which wiped the smile from his face, and caused all the flinching, and the grimacing, and then the tears. Yes, Pael mused, it had all gone extremely well. So well, in fact, that no one noticed that Ironspike was missing.
Even better, was the news Pael had received from Shaella. Summer’s Day had turned into a battlefield. The sacred Leif Greyn Valley had been thoroughly bloodied. He had intended to put the kingdoms against each other with his covert and indirect aggression, but a full scale battle was even better. In fact, it was perfect. And who would’ve thought that Lord Gregory would’ve been so inadvertently helpful, before he crawled off and died from Inkling’s poison dart.
Pael’s plans had gone so well that King Glendar’s present foolishness didn’t bother him at all. It didn’t matter how many heads the boy piked in the court yard, or whose heads they were. As a matter of fact, Pael welcomed any distraction that kept the new King’s mind off of his father’s sword.
Now that the news of the massacre at Summer’s Day was finally getting back to the Westland people, Lord Brach’s forceful recruitment of young, able bodied men didn’t seem so alarming to the common folk. The whole of Westland would soon be chomping at the bit to avenge to death of the well loved Lion Lord.
The latest rumors pinned the blame on Seaward and the Valleyans. The noble trading houses, and major land holders were already sending their extra men to join in the upcoming campaign. It wouldn’t be long before Pael could send the whole of the Westlander army, King Glendar included, off to war with the east.
The only piece he needed to complete his puzzle was Ironspike. He didn’t want the blade for Glendar to wield on his fool’s quest to conquer the eastern kingdoms though. Pael needed the sword for other reasons. One of which, was that its presence would solidify the claim of the one who would soon replace Glendar, as the ruler of the west. Another reason was that Ironspike’s great power was the only possible thing that could stop his plans from playing out.
Upon hearing the news of Lord Gregory’s death, Lady Zasha had pleaded with King Glendar to let her and her father, Lord Ellrich, be dismissed from court so that they might escort Lord Gregory’s wife, Lady Trella, back to her home at Lake Bottom Stronghold. Zasha wanted to help her through her troubled time of grief.
Lady Trella had come to Lakeside Castle for the King’s coronation, and to help Zasha woo the new King. The excitement of the times had flared like a bonfire inside of her. Little Zasha’s mother had died while birthing her, and Trella had always acted as a matronly figure for the girl. The fact that Trella had no children of her own, only made the bond stronger.
Lake Bottom Stronghold was only a few days’ carriage ride from Settsted Stronghold, where Lord Ellrich and Lady Zasha resided. Being that the two families were the most powerful in all of Southern Westland, they visited each other often. That Zasha would ask for Trella’s advice, and confide in her so much, was heartening. Lake Bottom Stronghold was the most boring of places when Lord Gregory and his men were away. It wasn’t much better when they were there. Lady Trella had reveled in the giddy excitement that women share when love is blossoming, and she had been proud when Zasha had asked her to act as her matron during the courtship. Trella’s blaze had been extinguished rather abruptly though. Like an entire keg full of water being dumped over a single candle flame, the news of her husband’s death snuffed all of her cheer instantly and sent her tumbling into darkness.
Lady Zasha could not, and would not, let the closest thing to a mother she had ever known go home, feeling so miserable and alone. The Stronghold at Lakebottom was a great and mighty place, but it was a lonely place. For each of its breathtaking balcony views, and high arched windows, there was an empty unused room, full of dust and gloom. It was not a place for grieving, Zasha knew. She had to do something that would help Trella cope with her loss. What that something was, she had no idea, but leaving the woman to mourn alone was out of the question.
King Glendar, in a show of kindness and understanding, had very publicly granted part of her request. Zasha was allowed to return to Lake Bottom with Lady Trella, but with all the trouble brewing in the east, her father could not be spared. War was most certainly on the horizon, and the commander of the Marsh Border Garrison would be needed.
Lord Ellrich sent a small attachment of his most trusted men, to accompany the two ladies on the journey around Lion’s Lake. He did his best to hide it, but he felt fairly certain that it would be the last time he saw his daughter. He secreted a letter to her, through one of his men, for her to read when she was finally out from under Glendar’s wickedly deceitful thumb. The letter pleaded with her to find a way to dissuade King Glendar from making her his Queen, and if she couldn’t manage that, he wanted her to kill him in his sleep, for the good of the people of Westland.
“Send Lord Able all the supplies he has requested,” Pael told the men seated at his end of the long glossed oak table in the council hall. “As a matter of fact, double the quantity of the supplies he wants. After all, more men are gathering at Eastwatch as we speak. This request is a week old. The four thousand men it speaks of will be doubled by the time the wagons get there.”
For the moment, Pael was leaving the actual planning of the battle to King Glendar and Lord Brach. The two of them were at the other end of the table, hovering over a sprawl of maps and charts, conferring to themselves, and oblivious to Pael and the others. The Order Pael had just given, was written up quickly, by a thin-haired old scribe, and then it was passed to the wizard. He blobbed it with wax, and then put the King’s Seal on it, without even batting an eye at Glendar. Pael was in sole charge of the preparations, a duty he chose to perform himself, so that he wouldn’t come across any surprises when he took over the rest of the campaign.
“Lord Ellrich, it says here that you’re only able to supply your new King with two thousand men. Is that correct?” Pael asked rather loudly.
“High Wizard Pael,” Lord Ellrich started diplomatically, as he leaned back and rested his meaty arms across his huge belly. His bulk caused the chair to groan in protest. “As you know, the garrison at Settsted is our great kingdom’s only protection in the south. If men are not left there to guard the border, then the creatures of the marshes will slither right into Westland.”