window.
“I see it,” Wyndall confirmed. He took a deep breath, and checked to see that the rusty sword he had found hanging in old man Gander’s barn was still at his hip. “Set them off then.”
“I’ll see you at the boat, Wyn,” said Bryant. His eyes held Wyndall’s, searching for something. “You’ll wait for me won’t you?”
Wyndall smiled reassuringly. He understood Bryant’s concern.
“On my word, I’ll wait until we can wait no longer. That’s all I can swear to.”
“Aye,” was all Bryant could reply to that.
Wyndall waited until Bryant was gone, then he said a prayer. When he finished, he made the sign for luck, and moved toward a little supply gate at the rear of the stronghold. He counted thirty paces from it, along the wall to the right, and after a panicky moment of searching, found the tiny wooden door hidden there. A few moments later, he had the old rusty sword slid through the jamb, and was jimmying the bar loose.
Just as the Lion Lord’s ancient priest, who had died in the cellar cell next to him had told him, he found himself in the back of the stronghold’s chapel.
Outside the main gate, four men draped in cloaks made of burlap and goat hide, approached on jury-rigged stilts, howling, snuffling, and demanding entry. They growled, yelled, and pounded wooden clubs together insistently, trying to make as much racket as possible.
The Sarzard on command stood atop the wall and hissed at them.
“Comesss closersss.”
He was terrified of these breed giants that had defied the Dragon Queen’s orders, but he wanted to see how many of them there were. He wanted to see if the rumors were true, about them being twice the size of men. The Zardmen that had recently returned from Lakeside Castle had all been saying all sorts of things about the ferocious creatures they had seen there. The whole stronghold was astir. Already, a group of Zard was gathering in the yard, below the Sarzard Captain, making a clamor. Some of them had been ordered there. Others came out of curiosity and concern.
“Wilds savages at the gates,” a Zardman hissed.
“The ones from Portsmouths, that ates all those humans,” added another.
“Breeeds giants from Lakesides!”
The whole ordeal lasted only a few minutes. The savage breed giants cursed about the drenching rain, and finally gave up, when it was clear that the gate wasn’t going to be opened for them. They stalked away into the rainy darkness, leaving the Zards inside the walls hissing a breath of relief.
“Where’s Lady Trella?” Wyndall asked Lady Zasha, in an exasperated whisper. He had only found one of the women he was trying to rescue waiting for him in the chapel, and was furious about it.
“She had to get something while the lizards were distracted,” Zasha responded fretfully.
At the moment, Wyndall’s expression was easily as terrifying as the prospect of getting caught by the Zardmen.
“It’s important,” she added in a mousy whisper.
As terrified as she was, she couldn’t help thinking how handsome this brave boy was that Lord Gregory had entrusted with his dying words. Without realizing it, Zasha inched closer to him. He made her feel safe, a feeling she hadn’t felt in quite some time.
Fargin women, Wyndall thought.
One had boiled his blood already, without even being in his presence, and the other had melted his heart with her timid voice and liquid eyes. He was pleased that he didn’t have to wait long. Lady Trella soon eased through the double doors that lead to the corridor beyond the chapel. She was struggling with a pillow sack, which appeared to be far too empty to warrant such effort. As she drew closer, the dull clank of precious metal explained why the sack was such a burden to the gaunt woman. Wyndall took it from her, and noticed her hesitation before she finally released it.
“Come, milady,” he said, forgetting his anger.
He knew that the value of the jewels and gold in the little sack he now held might make the difference in the success of the escape in the grander sense of things. There would be more to surviving than just getting away from the Zard.
“Follow me, and hurry. It is slick, and we’ve not much time.”
His voice was soft and reassuring now, and the strength and surety of it, went far in easing the angst the two women were feeling.
Through the dark drizzle, they made their way down to the river, to a place just a few hundred yards from where the head water came spilling over the natural dam that had formed Lion’s Lake. The roar of the powerful waterfall filled the night, but the darkness hid its beauty from the eyes.
Clayton Widden, a local farmer’s son, was waiting with the little boat. It looked to be a struggle for him to hold it there in the roiling current.
Wyndall helped the ladies into the craft, and then handed Lady Trella her bag. She nodded her thanks to him, but wasn’t sure if he saw. A moment later, he handed each of them a makeshift shield. They were old wagon wheels, with fence pickets nailed to them.
“If we are fired upon as we drift out, these will help protect you,” he said, over the sound of the waterfall.
Worriedly, he glanced back up the hill they had just descended.
“Lady Zasha, could you please hand up that bow?”
His tone had become suddenly urgent. He took it from her, strung it, and then threw the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.
“Clayton, be ready to shove off at my command,” he ordered, then moved off the dock back towards the hill.
“It’s past time to go,” Clayton was saying, but Wyndall didn’t hear him. Bryant had topped the hill.
There were two dark shapes, and only the slight glimmering reflection off of their rain soaked clothes as they ran, made them noticeable. One was Bryant. The other, was a young stable boy of about ten years of age, named Dort. Three, maybe four, Zard were not too far behind them. As soon as Wyndall had a good aim, he loosed an arrow. One of the Zard tripped forward, and went into a tumble of scaly limbs and tail.
“Don’t wait! Go!” Bryant yelled.
“We’ll swim for it!” added Dort.
Wyndall loosed another arrow, but missed his mark. He was drawing back a third, when he felt the gut bow string stretch to uselessness. The rain had gotten to it.
Clayton was urging him back to the boat, and as soon as he got in, they were off, swept downstream by the raging current. Already, Bryant and Dort were being forced to angle their mad dash down the hill towards them.
“Hold up the shields!” Wyndall commanded, as he drew his sword, and moved to the boat’s prow, which was momentarily facing the unfolding scene of the chase.
Dort leapt out over the water, his small legs churning, as if he were running through the air. Arrows rained down from above, some thumping into the wood of the boat and the shields, others plunking into the river’s dark water. Bryant barely escaped the claws of a Zardman, and dove headlong into the river. That Zardman, and a few others, came in after him.
From beneath the surface, a slithering, snakelike wake formed just behind Dort, who was swimming towards the boat with all the effort he could muster. It was all Wyndall could do to plunge his rusty blade blindly into the river behind the boy, as he reached the boat. The sword felt like its tip grated across the river bottom, until it violently shook itself free from his hand, and sank away.
Bryant surfaced just behind the boat, but a leaping lizardman came splashing down into the river right on top of him. The huge sheet of water thrown up by the splash, and the swell of the impact, rocked the boat violently. Wyndall fell awkwardly onto the floorboards, but Dort used the motion of the wave to pull himself up. The two women did the rest, and hauled him over the side, like he was an oversized fish. The last thing Wyndall remembered, before slipping into unconsciousness, was the gasps of horror from the two women, and Bryant’s blood-chilling scream as the swift swimming Zard tore him apart in the water.
Bzorch’s thirteen chosen tore through the trading town of Halter with a sickening fury. After feeding on the
