When he pulled out his sword the man who he’d impaled fell to the ground making a bib “thump” sound. Those fighting around him stopped and stared in his direction.
“The king is dead,” he yelled. “Long live the king!”
All those around, on both sides of the battle, took a knee and placed a hand over their heart. In unison, all yelled, “The king is dead, long live the king!!!”
Thus began the reign of Falcao, mystic, warrior, musician, wizard, and now monarch of all the known world.
It was Robbie Laws jam night at the Trailsend Saloon in Oregon City… end destination of the Oregon Trail. It was crowded as usual, a room full of jammers, but the Mystic new he would eventually get to get up and jam. If nothing else he’d work his magic on Robbie to let him jump to the front of the line. Other jammers would get pissed, but when they heard the Mystic play they’d all just sit back in wonder. The Mystics empathetic powers enabled him to flow in an open jam session like nobody’s elses business. Tonight the crowd would experience the Mystic’s playing on a virtually religious level… and none would ever forget it for the rest of their lives.
Both sides were entrenched like a family of Moray eels: hidden from sight, but ready to make a lightning strike, both figuratively and literally. But the mountain folk had a distinct advantage: Falcao, the Mystic of Cascadia, was among their number. He could sense the lie in the river folks position. There would be no surprise by the river folk’s soldiers, their true position being known by the Mystic. Such was the fate of those who attacked the mountain dwellers. The advantage provided by the Mystic of Cascadia was more than what their opponents could compensate for.
So the battle was over before it began. When the river folk sprung their trap, they found the mountain dwellers no where to be seen, just to have them appear at the river folk’s backs, weapons raised, and demanding surrender. The river folks had no other option than complying. They were tied to the masts of their ships, and set adrift to be carried by the current away to the ocean. Such overwhelming victory, and soul crushing defeat, would mar the tenuous relationship between river rat and mountain owl for generations to come.
When the wind started to blow the temperature dropped like a dead body. The caravan had already lost five wagons, it couldn’t lose another and hope to stay profitable. They’d lost three wagons to bandits, the other two to wolves. In every case, the wind had started to blow before the attack occurred. Magic was definitely involved in the hard fortunes on the road to the capital.
They’d just come around a blind corner when caravan leader Monsono called a halt. In the middle of the road was a dead dear, mutilated as if it had been beaten with a sledge hammer. “Burn it, ” Monsono barked at his subordinates. A call for oil was made and in short order the corpse was burning furiously. The light from the fire lit up the forest, but it felt as though the flames gave off no heat. Monsono’s second in command muttered under his breath, “Cursed, I say, the caravan is cursed.”
“Watch your tongue ,” Monsono rebuked, “don’t spook the men, we’ll end up being the only ones left to bring the caravan home.” At that a wolf howled just out of the range of the light from the fire, and growling could be heard from the blackness of the forest As the growling intensified, the caravan horses began to prance in fear.
Then a voice spoke out of nowhere. “You’ll have no trouble with our wolves, if you just leave us your wagons. Don’t test us… you’ve seen what the wolves can do.”
Monsono stared as the voice stepped from out of the shadow. “You,” Monsono accused, “I should of known. Only you would torture an animal like you did to make a point. Damn you, Falcao, you’re suppose to be dead.”
“Not yet,” Falcao said. “At least not until I stand over your cooling carcass.”
Monsono stared at the man and new he was about to die at the hand of The Mystic Of Cascadia, a fate all feared.