“Mansel!” Zollin said, which was all it took to get the big warrior moving.
He was like an attack dog let off his chain, kicking his horse into action and screaming a battle cry as he rode forward. His bloody sword was held high in the air as he raced toward the first deserter. He leaned forward and swung his menacing weapon in a level slash that chopped cleanly through the man’s neck. The head flew away from the body, which ran on for several more steps before crashing to the earth. The other man had angled away from his fleeing companion and when Mansel’s horse veered in his direction the man dropped to the ground. Mansel rose straight for him, trampling the man under his horse’s hooves so that blood splashed up on the animal’s belly.
One of the knights was injured in the fall and couldn’t get to his feet. The other two were helping him when the last of the four assailants rushed toward Hausey. They had short swords and daggers, but the commander was a veteran fighter. He moved quickly to the right and thrust his broadsword at the nearest attacker. The man lurched back, and Hausey quickly spun around and slammed his sword into the other attacker’s shoulder. The blade stuck fast in bone, and when the man scrambled backward Hausey lost his grip on the sword. The first attacker moved forward again, bringing his sword around in a vicious slash that would have gutted Hausey, but the blade couldn’t penetrate the commander’s mail coat. Hausey punched the attacker with a straight, right-handed blow to the nose that crushed cartilage and bone. Blood poured from the man’s nostrils, and he dropped his sword as he staggered back, holding his face. Hausey drew his own dagger and swung it at the man’s face. The attacker raised his hand in a defensive reflex that cost him three fingers. The attacker fell to the ground in shock, and Hausey dropped to one knee as he slammed his dagger into the man’s heart.
The other attacker was screaming in pain as he writhed on the ground, desperate to get the sword out of his shoulder. He had dropped both of his weapons, and Hausey put his booted foot on the man’s head before wrenching his broadsword free. The man passed out from the pain, and Hausey sliced open his throat in one efficient move with his dagger.
“Neatly done,” Zollin said.
“Thanks for the assistance,” the commander replied.
Mansel came riding up, wiping a cloth across his blade. It was the same sword Zollin had crafted using the steel links of chain the soldiers in the Great Valley had used to detain them. It was the one possession Mansel treasured. Everything else could be replaced, but not the sword. He made sure that it was well maintained and razor sharp.
Zollin helped the injured knight onto his horse. The knight refused Zollin’s offer to heal him, insisting that his leg was sore but not broken. Zollin levitated the knight into the saddle, and everyone else got ready to finish their journey.
“Is there any need to search them?” one of the knights asked Hausey.
“No, they’re obviously a scouting unit. Let’s get moving. Our orders were clear: we need to get Zollin to King Felix.”
They rode for another hour before finally reaching the main gate. It was closed, of course, and the soldiers guarding it were wary, but one recognized Commander Hausey and they were allowed inside.
“Where is King Felix?” Hausey asked one of the guards.
“He’s in the field,” the man explained. “He took the whole army and marched south.”
“We need fresh mounts, then, and supplies,” he ordered. “We’ll ride to join him at dawn.”
* * *
For three days there was a stalemate. Offendorl held his forces in check, and King Felix was content to hold his position. Then one of the many scouts sent out to find people who had seen the dragon returned with an old man.
“You’ve seen the dragon?” Offendorl asked him.
“No, but I’ve seen the Priestess,” said the man.
“Who is the Priestess?”
“She’s the one who warned our village that the dragon was coming. Most folks didn’t believe her, but I did. She had wild hair and her clothes were all singed. She weren’t acting, that I could see right away. Most folks in my village thought the rumors weren’t true, but the Priestess made a believer out of me. I left Tucker Hill that same day and from what I heard the dragon burned it to the ground that very night.”
“What did the Priestess tell you?” Offendorl asked.
“She said that the dragon, Bartoom she called it, wanted our gold and that if we would leave all our gold it would spare our village. I didn’t have any gold so I just left. Better safe than sorry I always say.”
“Bartoom,” Offendorl said, trying out the sound of the word. “Bartoom? Are you sure that’s what she called it?”
“Of course I’m sure,” the old man said. “I’ve lost a lot of things but my memory is just fine. To be honest, she gave me a fright with her spooky-looking eyes. She had no emotion, just dreadful words, and she spoke in a strange voice. I’ll remember it to my dying day.”
“Get him food, drink, whatever he wants,” Offendorl told the soldiers who had found the man.
He had hurried back to his wagon after that. The golden helmet was almost complete. He drank more wine and felt the warmth of the wine spread through his body and give him strength. Then he focused on the lead that his servants had brought to him. He could move his mind quickly down into the metal and feel the spinning essence of it. Soon the lead seemed to blur, then melt, and finally it transformed. The dark, dull lead was now bright, gleaming gold.
Once Offendorl had transmuted the lead into gold, he had to stop and rest. He wasn’t as strong as he once had been. His knowledge was greater than ever before, and that is what always separated him from the other wizards of the Torr. In small bursts he could summon great power that no one could fathom, but his physical body simply couldn’t hold up to the stress of wielding such power for long. But he’d learned to deal with his limitations and how to position himself so that only his strength was visible.
He drank more wine and ate again. He was in no hurry; the Yelsian army posed no threat at the moment. The reports of casualties from the bombardment were grievous but not alarming. They had lost over two hundred men, although many of those were reported as missing, and Offendorl guessed they were deserters. Once he felt strong again, he used his magic to fashion the gold he had transmuted into a crown-like helmet. It was large enough to cover only his skull, but it was still very heavy, and he knew he would be able to wear the helmet for only short periods of time. It only took moments to inscribe the dragon’s name into the gold. Then, even though he was tired and hungry, he put on a leather coif to give his head some protection from the heavy gold helmet. He had to boost his strength with magic, levitating the hemet rather than just lifting it up. When the helmet came down on Offendorl’s head, he felt a jolt as his magic rose up and joined the golden crown. Offendorl had collected many magical objects, but he’d never discovered how to create one. Now he could feel his magic join with the helmet crown, and his mind seemed sharper somehow.
Offendorl sent out his summons to the dragon. He had felt it approaching for days, but it had not come within sight. It moved mainly at night now, hunting and flying high overhead where Offendorl guessed it could see the army camp. Now he called the beast by name, pushing out the mental commands with his magic to give them power.
He felt the dragon moving, it was flying now, hungry and angry, but submitting to Offendorl’s will just the same. It would be here soon, he thought. It was close, and now he could understand the dragon’s thoughts. They were like mental images, streaming from the helmet into his brain. He saw the countryside passing beneath him, felt the ecstasy of flight and the anguish of the beast’s loss of will.