Blood Of The Wizard (Book 1) by Thomas Head Page A

of Death himself riding atop that large black steed I had called Little Fellow.  He comes bursting through my hall back in Goback.  He is like a screaming ghost, still atop his horse, swinging his long scythe at me. 
    I can see the bare-bone, zombie face under that hood, wiping blood from his pearl-handled scythe on the sleeve of his cloak.  Death laughs at me.  And it rides away as I stand at the threshold of my hall.  Then suddenly Death is atop the wyrm, and he slithers with her out of the world altogether.
     
     
     
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    It was dark when I woke, and someone had added logs to the fire.  The glare in the sky attracted a small, wild party of elves and shaggy-haired dwarves—degenerates who had lost all taste for civilization or had retired with elvish wives.  They must have come from nearby lodges.  Or else they were just a motley throng, passing through like us, for we had seen no fires.  We hadn’t seen so much as a riverside horse trail.
    When I saw them, I gave a low signal, the low whippet of a loon.   Everyone among us drew their axes closer, some without opening their eyes.
    As my fellows roused, I whistled again, this time for them to remain calm.
    The party of strangers approached slowly, making a friendly show of things, waving and nodding before they drew off to a fire by themselves.  They had either begged or stolen some beer.  They even offered some to us, only to receive icy stares from Halvgar, Kenzo, and myself. 
    Th ey just shrugged as if it didn’t matter to them. 
    I watched the lithe, elvish figures leaping and dancing between the firelight and the dusky woods like forest demons.  With the wind and rain rustling overhead, and the river’s shores sloshing heavily on the pebbles, and the washed pine air stimulating my blood like an intoxicant, I began wondering how many years of solitary life it would take to wear through civilization’s veneer and leave one content to live like an elf, satisfied in the lodges of forest wilds. 
    Gradually, my mind settled.  I became aware of Delthal’s presence on the other side of the campfire.  He went to about halfway between the two camps and halted.  He made no outwardly gesture for want of joining them, but he sat on his feet, elf style, gazing intently at their flames as if spellbound by some fire demon.
    “ What’s wrong with that fellow, anyhow?” Kenzo grunted, who was taking the last pulls at a smoked-out pipe.
    “ Sick—home-sick,” Halvgar said. 
    “ You’d think he was near enough nature here to feel at home!”
    “ It’s not the wilds he wants,” my old friend explained.
    “ What, then?” Kenzo inquired.
    “ His woman, he’s mad after her,” Halvgar said, and he took his own pipe to his teeth to mask his grimace.
    “ Faugh!” Kenzo grumbled.  “The idea of a dwarf all sentimental and lovesick for some fat lump of a whoring she-elf!  Come!  Come! Am I to believe that?”
    “ Doesn’t matter whether you do or not,” Halvgar returned.  “It’s a fact.  His woman’s gone east to Delmark with a gang of guides and hunters last week.  The young buck has been bark at your mother loony ever since.”
    “ Loony?  The lad’s nary spoken a word!”
    “ It’s in his stillness, Master Kenzo… In his stillness.”
    Kenzo looked at Halvgar and muttered another unintelligible tumbling of curses.  
    I turned my gaze from them to the fantastic figures.  They were carousing around the other camp fire now.  One form in particular stood out more than the others.  He was gathering the elves in line for some native dance and had an easy grace that was different from the motions of the blueskins.  With a sudden turn, his profile was thrown against the fire, and I saw that while his ears were as pointed as an arrowhead, he wore a braided beard! 
    H e was no elf.  Nor again was he a man.  And he was too tall to be a dwarf.  Even Mighty Kenzo, at almost five feet tall, was shorter by six