*
*
Dragol pressed onward through the eerily silent forest, still laden with the disconcerting feeling that other eyes were upon him. His body, underneath his hide cuirass, was now caked with sweat, which ran in thin rivulets down from his perspiring brow, trickling around his short muzzle. Dragol’s robust muscles were finally drained of their normally prodigious reserves of strength.
Even if he were a typical Trogen warrior, such an exhausted state would have required considerable amounts of exertion to reach. As one of the more exceptional specimens of his race, it testified to the fact that Dragol had undergone a most arduous struggle.
The gloaming of the settling dusk had begun to permeate the forest around him, overtaking the dappled light from the late afternoon’s sun. The shadows were filling in and deepening among the trees all around, the overall ambience progressively dimming.
For quite some time, his throat had been parched for drink, and his body ached for more solid sustenance. Yet Dragol was not about to worry about issues such as those. Every stride that he could take, and every league that he could traverse, would place him farther and farther beyond the swirling chaos in the region being pierced by the invasion.
A couple of ascensions to the top of aged, soaring oak trees had given him a propitious view of the situation above the forest’s ceiling. The skies were largely calm, and he could see no signs of either friend or foe, whether Darroks, Trogens, or enemy Midragardans.
His own Harrak was not yet faring badly, although the stalwart steed was clearly beginning to show fatigue. Rodor was a hardy animal, to an exceptional degree, but Dragol would worry about its needs well before taking care of his own.
Just over a gentle rise, they came within sight of a woodland brook that was flowing with crisp, translucent waters. The sight was virtually irresistible, prompting Dragol to trudge slowly forward, heading down the embankment.
He removed his helm as he neared the water’s edge, feeling the rush of cool air engulf his heated, sweat-matted head. Sheathing his longblade, and setting his shield down on the bank next to him, he sank to his knees by the water’s edge.
Both Trogen and Harrak were shortly drinking in ample gulps of the welcome, invigorating liquid. The cool water washed down Dragol’s dry throat, beginning to quench his deep thirst and renew his depleted body. Though tired, and with a seemingly bottomless desire for the water, he maintained enough presence of mind to keep his consumption controlled, maintaining his awareness for any signs of threats.
With one cupped hand, he scooped up some of the water and splashed it on his broad forehead. A few more douses with the water were sufficient to remove the stickiness caused by the sweat and dirt that had caked upon his face.
He breathed a deep sigh of relief, as the water dripped off of his protruding face, allowing himself a brief moment of enjoyment in the midst of the struggles that had enveloped his existence. As he allowed his body its first moments of rest in some time, the fatigue building inside finally began to catch up fully with him. A less rational part of him felt like collapsing in a heap on the bank, and going to sleep for awhile.
Ordering his swiftly tightening leg muscles to stand again, he slowly walked over to a tree just beyond the bank of the brook. Leaning his shield against it, Dragol slumped down wearily against the base of the trunk. He felt his eyelids growing very heavy while he watched his steed finish satiating its thirst.
The gloom in the woods had deepened considerably, growing significantly murkier as day edged upon the brink of night. Nothing stirred within the woods, and Dragol could not deny that a short rest would certainly do his body well. The prospect of rest was so powerfully inviting, so seductive that he almost pushed his cares aside and gave in to the inclination.
Cursing sharply at himself for entertaining such weakness, he roused himself back up, stretching his muscles and taking in several deep breaths to stave off the laborious fatigue. His Harrak had just finished drinking, and looked as if it was about to settle down along the embankment.
The distinctive feeling of being watched still hung ominously in the air. He had almost fallen asleep out in the open, without regard for shelter or his steed, he angrily realized. If something with harmful intent had been watching, then it would have had plenty of opportunity to launch a surprise attack.
Carefully, he panned his eyes around the forest, with a focus so intent and penetrating that his gaze threatened to see through solid objects. His search was left unsatisfied, at least in finding a physical cause for the bothersome feelings. Shaking his head, he turned to relieve himself near one of the adjacent trees, his bladder already filled, and now being added to with the weight of the water that he had just imbibed from the brook.
As he was finishing, a few flickers of movement off to his right suddenly caught his eye. As he snapped to attention, turning to focus in that direction, there were some other flickers of motion just off to his left, this time accompanied with some faint rustlings in the underbrush. Keeping his head rigid and his eyes still, he reached out with his left arm and picked his shield back up, settling his grip around the straight iron bar midway up the back.
Swiftly, he withdrew his longblade, quietly stepping forward and standing alongside his Harrak. A surge of adrenaline pushed back a good portion of his weariness, enabling a keener wariness to come forth in its wake.
As some other shadows moved off to the right, emitting the sounds of more rustlings and scrapes, the Harrak tucked its wings close and squared its body towards the movements. Rodor’s large ears twitched and shifted, as they diligently tracked the sounds.
The steed’s eyes and nostrils flared, as it picked up the scent of whatever was moving among the trees. A low growl emanated deep from within the sky steed’s throat, as its clawed feet shuffled and scratched the ground. It bared its sharp teeth menacingly, clenched firmly within its extremely powerful jaws.
Seeing the Harrak’s agitation, Dragol knew that there were serious threats fanning out in the woods around them. His fears were further confirmed just a few moments later, as forms moved in a swift blur to the left and right of his periphery, a little closer than before.
The worst aspect of it was that he had no idea what the gathering threat was, though he surmised from the sounds and rapid bursts of movement that it was some kind of wild animal. The movements were far too quick to have been executed by any human, or even one of the rat-men from Yanith.
“Guard,” Dragol whispered forcibly to his Harrak, a command that set the sky steed into a trained combat mode, ready to slash and bite should anything of a foreign nature come upon them.
He slowly retreated backwards a couple more steps towards the side of his Harrak, feeling its body pressed against his back. Quickly, he spared a glance upward, to see what desperate options might lay above.
There was no clearing big enough to afford them an easy escape, even if he had wished to try to break through in an outright emergency and risk injury to Rodor. The old trees had grown a sprawling web of thick, strong branches over the years, interlaced and spread out all over, forming a continuous, dense cover. The matter of whether or not Dragol was willing to risk the Harrak’s injury was entirely inconsequential, as the forest canopy was completely impassable, blocking his steed from the safer haven of the sky.
The forest grew deadly silent, as Dragol steeled his resolve for the coming attack. As if a shadow was coming to life, one of the entities openly walked out of the brush off to the right. It was about the size of a normal wolf, although Dragol could tell right away that there were many differences.
The creature’s head was flatter and longer than that of a wolf, with eyes set low in its skull. The animal’s open jaws exhibited a set of elongated, thin canines, as it snarled and growled at the Trogen and Harrak.
The beast had a heavily built, muscular body, walking on shorter, thick limbs that ended in large feet. Dragol could see no claws at the ends of its feet, and it appeared to walk with a more upright, flatter step than other forest hunters, such as wolves.
Not showing any fear of Dragol or the Harrak, the creature took a few more steps forward, fixing them with its feral gaze. Three other similar forms then issued forth from the surrounding trees, another to his right, one to his left, and one a little behind him.
There was little use for any further pretenses. A fight for life was about to begin.
The Harrak had turned toward the two approaching predators off to the right, hissing and growling defiantly towards them. Dragol rotated a little so that he could keep a full eye upon both of the others, as they stepped closer and closer.
Dragol waved his sword and roared a battle cry at them. Subtleties were forgotten, and would only become a concern again if he survived the impending fight.
The creatures rushed in from all sides, as Dragol braced himself for the impact. He angled his shield towards the one that had been closing from behind while he prepared to strike at the other with the longblade.
He heard the raucous cry of his Harrak, just as the two creatures on his side finally reached him. With another loud cry, Dragol brought the longblade chopping down in an incredibly forceful blow, timing the strike perfectly.
The blade cleaved deep into the creature, burying itself far into the base of its skull. The creature’s momentum carried it a little further, but it flopped down heavily on the ground, killed instantly by the robust blow.
The creature that he was shielding against thudded heavily into the wooden barrier, its dense body and speed knocking Dragol backwards. He had just a split second between the time that he had lodged his longblade in the flesh and bone of the other creature and the impact of the second. The great force of the collision caused him to lose his grip on the hilt of the longblade, as he tumbled back.
With a quick glance, he saw that he had almost been knocked into the maelstrom behind him, as the Harrak’s arsenal of teeth and claws were pitted against the snapping, shearing jaws of the two beasts besetting it.
Just a few feet to his left, the creature that had hit his shield had scrambled back to its feet, and was in the motion of charging in again. Dragol had no weapon in his hand to strike it with, and instead braced his legs, readying to thrust the shield outward.
As the creature came within a couple feet of him, he put his body behind a strong shove, and smashed the creature in the end of its long snout with the rigid wood of the shield. Rapid yelps and cries of pain erupted from the creature as it stumbled aside, its snout bloodied from the vigorous strike.
Dragol kept to his feet, and saw that the beast had lost much of its boldness, as it whined and snarled in a mixture of anger and pain. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that the hilt of his longblade was sticking up just a few feet to his right.
Keeping his eyes largely riveted upon the wounded creature before him, and casting quick glances behind him, just in case one of the other beasts had broken free of the ongoing tumult, he edged over to the body of the fallen beast. Gripping the hilt of the longblade, he placed his right boot on the dead animal’s head, wrenching the longblade free with a forceful yank.
Now one against one, he squared his shield towards the surviving beast, and stomped forward with his blade raised in his right hand. The creature snarled and backpedaled at his aggressive advance.
Dragol bellowed another war cry at it, as he surged forward behind the shield and brought his longblade up for a sweeping attack. The beast had evidently had enough of the struggle and Dragol’s surge of aggression, as it whirled, leaped, and bounded off into the depths of the forest.
Hot with rage, Dragol cursed the fleeing beast and turned around to go to the aid of his Harrak.
The steed was still fending off the other two remaining predators. Its neck, sides, and flanks had been raked by the attacker’s slashing, snapping teeth, its body rife with seeping wounds, but it had inflicted several gashes of its own upon its two muscular tormenters.
One creature was positioned in front of the Harrak, and one was edging behind, as the battle had drawn to a temporary stalemate. There was plenty of fight left in the Harrak, as it snapped viciously in the direction of the creature in front of it.
The Harraks had extraordinary jaw strength, possessing bone-crunching power. The reflexes of the two predators must have been very capable to avoid being caught in the Harrak’s devastating bite.
Dragol took off at a charge towards his steed, but everything developed at a dizzyingly fast pace. The two beasts moved in near unison upon his steed, to resume their attack.
The Harrak cried out as the creature behind it clamped its jaws down upon one of its hind legs, tearing at the muscle and flesh. Given a slight opening as the Harrak lurched up in pain, the creature in front of it lunged forward, bringing its jaws down upon one of the Harrak’s forelegs. The two predators intended to cripple the much larger Harrak, and then wear it down in a struggle of attrition.
Dragol did not hesitate as he neared the engaged predators and his wounded steed. With a raging outcry at the point of attack, Dragol caught the beast at the front of his steed completely by surprise. He slashed down vigorously, empowered with unrelenting fury as the blade met the exposed back of the creature. It would not aggrieve his steed any further, as the blade cleaved right through its spine.
Not pausing to evaluate the damage, Dragol unceremoniously ripped the blade free, shifted his grip, and brought it down with all the force that he could muster. The strike impaled the stricken creature, finishing off whatever scant shreds of life that may have lingered within it.
Once again, Dragol had driven the blade deep, and had to take a couple of moments to free the longblade, stepping on the carcass of the predator. Rearing up, and with the longblade readied again, he turned immediately to see what had become of the last remaining predator.
Rodor had spun around to face the other creature, but the predator had somehow gotten underneath the Harrak’s lower jaw. It had been able to bring its elongated snout, and long, narrow canines to bear down onto the neck of his loyal steed.
The image called up an unsurpassed furor within the Trogen warrior. Dragol moved with lightning speed and slew the final creature with one tremendous blow.
The strike severed the creature’ s head from its neck, though its jaws were still embedded in the throat of his beleaguered steed. Dragol fell forward and pulled the jaws of the dead creature wide, slinging the head aside, so that he could free the neck of his sorely wounded steed.
To his great dismay and deep anguish, the final predator had delivered a mortal wound to his cherished Harrak, Rodor. The fatally wounded sky steed collapsed on the ground, as its life ebbed rapidly. Time seemed to halt as its sides heaved a couple more times, just before the last breath fled its body.
To a Trogen sky rider, Harrak steeds were an extension of the rider. A bond of great trust and affection grew between a longtime steed and rider, as each came to know the other’s mannerisms and nuances, as if they were one.
The steeds carried their riders across the skies at distances above the ground that would allow for no mistakes. In combat the steeds had to fight and respond to the directives of their riders without any room for error, as a stricken steed meant certain death for the rider. Such a close dependence bred a relationship that far surpassed that of most Trogen friendships.
Rodor had been with Dragol for several years, and the sudden loss of his sky steed wrenched deep emotions from within him. Not inclined to tears of sorrow, the Trogen warrior responded in a great burst of anger and helpless frustration.
“No enemy maggots will feast upon you, Rodor… not one! Even if it causes the death of me!” Dragol seethed, through tightly clenched teeth.
Despite every effort to hold back the deepest of his emotions, his eyes misted over hotly, with a burning sadness. He reached out and caressed the muzzle of his loyal, fallen sky steed.
The overwhelming feeling of emptiness gaping within him prompted some actions that would have seemed to be very ill-advised, especially within a foreign land caught in the chaotic, deadly grip of war. Not even bothering to think of the possible consequences, looking out through eyes white hot, and fueled by several passions, Dragol set about fashioning a makeshift funeral pyre. His sense of caution gave way to recklessness, as he barely paused to worry about the possibility of dangerous wild animals or enemy tribesmen, despite having recently come across both in his journey through the unfamiliar woods.
In a way, he hoped that the last of the predators came back, so that he could take his time and hack it apart piece by piece, for each injury suffered by Rodor, even the slightest scratch.
He cleared out a wide space upon the forest floor, setting wood and dry brush around the body of his steed. Dutifully, he removed all of the items that could still be used from the Harrak, leaving its harnessing and saddle on it.
Dragol retrieved some flint from one of the leather pouches that had been affixed to the harnessing. With a little effort, he started a fire, and watched with a leaden heart as the flames took to life, spreading around the body of his loyal sky steed. Neither the smoke from the fire, though stinging his eyes, nor the pungent scent of burning flesh, which filled his nostrils, could do so much as budge him, as he stared dourly into the depths of the consuming flames.
His thoughts dwelled upon Rodor’s steadfast loyalty and companionship. Dragol reflected upon a host of adventures that they had shared together, as the smoke wafted up. It was the least of tributes that he could give to a creature that had shared so much of his life.
“Goodbye, Rodor. Were it possible that we meet again, then I would most gladly,” Dragol murmured, as the flames were finishing up with their appointed task. “Fly high across the Elysian Fields, Rodor… fly free and far, to every horizon.”
Only when the flames were dying out did the thought finally cross his mind that the smoke from the pyre and scent of the burned flesh might attract unwelcome attention. Feeling as hollow as he ever had before, he mustered his resolve and trudged onward, following the course of the stream along its bank. He was now bearing a couple of leather bags in addition to his weapons, and the progress was slower and more taxing. He had barely proceeded more than one league before he needed to stop and rest for a few moments.
Leaning up against a tree, he set his shield down to lean against his thigh. He fumbled about in one of the packs for some hard bread and dried meat. In his sorrow, he did not feel hungry, but knew that his body needed something now if he hoped to have enough strength to hunt later.
The darkness was much thicker now, and the silvery light of the two moons filtered down in thin rays through the overhead canopy. The descending light gave a spectral cast to the environs, though after what he had been through Dragol was not unnerved in the least. He looked at the woods around him, though his mind was far from where he could even appreciate the aesthetic nature of the scene.
Yet in that moment, a sense of alertness flooded back into his conscious mind, as another feeling of being closely watched surfaced.
Whether it was due to the great fatigue accumulated through the battle, the ordeals in the forest, and the debilitating, emotional loss of his sky steed, or perhaps some deeper insight, he did not experience the sense of threat that had accompanied his prior feelings. He let the bread and meat fall back into the saddle pouch, and then let it and the other leather pack that he carried fall to the ground. Picking up his shield again, his chest heaved with deep breaths, as he girded his resolve once more.
He was beyond caring, and felt that he would rather not delay a moment more, and get whatever fight was coming over with. Gripping his Thunder Wolf amulet on the leather cord about his neck, he spoke aloud an oath that he would die well, in a way that would honor the Trogen race.
Placing the amulet back down to rest upon his chest, he reached down and slid his longblade out of its sheath once again.
Breathing in a deep draught of air, he shouted loudly into the forest. “Who is it that comes now? I know that you are there. Reveal yourself! Fight me if you will! Beast or man, I do not care!”
His glistening, sorrowful eyes peered out into the shadows, awaiting a response. After several long moments, in which it seemed as if nothing more would happen, a solitary figure moved out from among the trees just across the brook. The beams of moonlight revealed that the figure was dressed in a flowing cloak that draped the being from the neck nearly to the ground. On the figure’s head was a wide-brimmed, round-topped hat.
“It is not safe in this area. Especially for a Trogen,” a deep, yet gentle, voice emerged from the being. It was a decidedly non-threatening tone, one that contrasted mightily with everything that Dragol had felt and experienced since deciding to land his steed in the forest. Even more surprising, the words had been spoken fluently in the Trogen language.
“Who are you?” Dragol queried, utterly surprised at the presence of a stranger, clearly not of his own kind, speaking in the Trogen tongue.
“One of past, present, and future,” returned the cryptic reply, again in perfectly rendered Trogen. From what Dragol could judge, the individual was a human male.
“Are you of the Five Realms?” Dragol asked.
“No, for my loyalty is only given to one Kingdom, though my path has taken me through many,” the other stated calmly.
“Which Kingdom is that?” Dragol asked, his curiosity rising.
“A Kingdom not of this world, though it still resides in the hearts of many who yet walk the face of this world,” the other replied.
The figure walked to the edge of the brook, pulling his cloak up as he stepped through the shallow waters to reach the bank on the other side. The strange figure surmounted the bank and stepped towards Dragol, approaching closely enough for the Trogen to make out some further details.
Underneath the broad brim of the hat was the face of an old man, with thick, flowing locks of white hair, and a copious, white beard that reached down to the middle of his chest. The old man wore a patch covering one eye, while the lone, exposed eye seemed to sparkle, even in the dim environs.
Despite the outward signs of advanced age on the human, Dragol noticed that the man moved with a certain litheness that belied the elderly appearance. He also had fairly broad shoulders, carried well, in good posture. The man exhibited none of the frailty that old humans usually showed.
“I have heard of no such Kingdom,” Dragol countered, not knowing what to make of the peculiar figure. His hand remained tight upon the hilt of his longblade, though his instincts still perceived no trace of threat. Nevertheless, he warned the man sternly, “Go no farther.”
The old man halted, about ten feet away from where Dragol stood. There was no hint of aggression in the man’s posture or face.
“Why are you in these woods? This is far from those under your command, Dragol,” the old man addressed him, as if they were merely sharing a casual conversation.
The words caused the Trogen chieftain to pause. His body was tired, and his mind was probably very dulled after all of the recent, arduous trials, but he had not completely lost his wits.
Dragol wondered immediately how the old man knew his name and that he was a commander of warriors. It was even stranger than the fact that the man spoke the Trogen language with fluency, and moved with far more suppleness than a human of advanced years normally did. Whatever the explanation was, it was apparent that the man likely possessed some sort of mystical power.
Dragol could not afford to assume otherwise, or he was sure to find himself in even greater peril. The huge Trogen’s grip tightened further on the leather-wrapped hilt of his longblade. He was not one with inclinations to trust Wizards, for that is what he perceived the man to be.
“There is no need for alarm, Dragol. No harm shall come to you from me,” the old man said, as if he had just read Dragol’s thoughts.
The old man then grew quiet for a moment, his attention distracted, momentarily intent on another, unspoken matter. He suddenly brought his head up and looked at Dragol. “Another patrol of tribal warriors is coming this way.”
A few moments later, Dragol’s sharp ears caught the sounds of a group approaching through the trees. Deftly, he snatched up the saddlebags and moved to the side, taking refuge behind a large tree.
He took his eyes off of the old man for only an instant. When his eyes reverted back to where the old man had been standing, he gnashed his teeth in frustration and rising anxiety. The old man was no longer in sight.
A few hushed voices indicated that the oncoming entities were even closer. Not knowing whether he had been betrayed or warned by the old man, Dragol quietly awaited his fate.
Straightening up, he became as still as the wide trunk of the tree that he stood next to. Moments later, a party of tribal warriors passed by, sweeping through the trees from the right. Dragol found himself marveling at their considerable ability to melt in and out of shadows. In all, there were about forty warriors, and Dragol quietly edged around the tree as they passed down the near bank of the brook.
It was a very large war patrol, and fully armed. Dragol stood no chance against them if discovered. He held his breath as a few of the warriors passed within just ten paces of his position. The warriors did not seem overly intent upon a search, and they soon passed beyond his position, heading deeper into the woods.
Long after Dragol could no longer make out any sounds of the warrior group, he slowly came out from behind the tree trunk. He looked around for the strange old man, wondering if he was still in the vicinity.
“A large patrol, and concerned with other business than finding you, but that may not last much longer,” the voice of an old man remarked, breaking the stillness.
Dragol whirled about, raising up his shield and deadly blade in the same movement. The old man was standing about twenty feet behind him, in full sight. He bore no weapons, and held no threatening posture, but Dragol still remained very cautious. The Trogen’s eyes darted about for signs of others, just in case the old man was trying to distract him.
“They are sure to come across the bodies of those Pahyna that you slew, and the remains of the fire,” the old man continued in a relaxed manner, not even flinching at Dragol’s swift movements. “It would not be wise for you to tarry here much longer.”
Dragol felt speechless, stunned at the man’s appearance and audacity.
“If you are wondering why I did not assist you, I arrived after your fight was already over. I am very sorry over the loss of your good steed,” the man said, in a voice that seemed entirely sincere. A compassionate smile came to the man’s face. “Just know that Rodor will not forget you, and that he spreads his wings in another place.”
“Who are you?” Dragol queried again, with an edge to his voice at the open mention of Rodor. Dragol was incredulous at the man’s unbelievable ability to move imperceptibly. He was equally shocked at the man’s highly personal knowledge regarding Dragol, having just openly named his fallen steed. He then added, with exasperation, “What do you want of me?”
The old man smiled warmly, a radiance that seemed to evoke light amid the deep shadows of the forest. His singular eye appeared to glint with amusement.
“Want from you? Or want for you? The two questions are different, and perhaps you should ask the latter,” the elderly man replied. “I see good fortune in our paths crossing. In time, you will understand. I believe you are set for a greater path, if you choose, and if you survive to set foot on it. Take heed of yourself. I was not expecting to meet you, as I am in these woods for other purposes, but I will endeavor to return to you. For now, I must go onward.”
“Go, now?” replied a sorely rankled Dragol.
“Look to the things of your heart. Is that not the way of your kind? It does not always come easy, to gain wisdom, nor should it be easy,” the old man said reflectively, his lone eye holding Dragol firmly in place. “Draw strength from your heart, and find the truths that have taken root there, and grown over time. Often, we have already learned the answers to what we seek, only we have not realized how to ask ourselves the right questions to discover those answers within us.”
“The questions?” Dragol responded, now thoroughly perplexed.
“When you first learned to use your longblade, were there ever times where a lesson or a movement seemed difficult?” the old man asked him.
Dragol nodded slowly, remembering the many ordeals of being a youth training to be proficient with the longblade. It had been a very painful trial, and he had incurred innumerable bruises during the process. Many were the nights that he went to sleep with his muscles wracked with soreness, and his body feeling as heavy as mountain stone. Sparring, learning defensive movements, body stances, striking techniques, and everything else involved with the mastery of the Trogen longblade had been an extended process that had taken many years, and Dragol knew that he could still get better.
“And did you not have days where a lesson that once seemed mystifying suddenly made sense to you? Or a movement that was once awkward and clumsy suddenly came much easier to you?” the old man asked him.
Again, Dragol had to agree, remembering his own amazement during such moments. “Yes, I remember.”
“What I speak of is a different matter, but it is not unlike the times when realizations suddenly came to you, long ago, as you learned the use of your longblade,” the old man said. “There are things that you know you are struggling with, and there are also struggles going on within you, that you do not know are happening. Perhaps these things will all become clear to you in time, as things became clear to you over time when you were learning to wield the longblade. I do not wish to depart, but I must go now. I will try to return to you soon.”
Without a further word, the old man smiled, before turning abruptly and walking off into the depths of the forest. A bewildered and amazed Dragol watched quietly until the old man disappeared into the thick, woodland growths.
As the old man vanished into the young night, Dragol found himself wondering if he had just experienced his first personal encounter with a Wizard. A very sobering thought then struck him in the midst of his wonderment. If the man was indeed a Wizard, then Dragol was either being faced with a wondrous boon, or a very grave danger. Only time would discern which of the two it was.
*