Free Kedrigern in Wanderland by John Morressy Page A

the solution. A brilliant idea," said the wizard. “You’re thinking like a king.”
    “What idea?”
    With a wink, Kedrigern stepped to the hearth and took up the poker. It was of iron, very black, and about the length of Panstygia. Murmuring softly, he traced a design along its length with his fingers, then raised it high, brandished it, and plunged it down dramatically into the table top. There it stood embedded, a great dark blade the exact twin of Panstygia.
    Hamarak clapped his hands and cried out in astonishment and pleasure. Kedrigern acknowledge this tribute, and Panstygia’s brusque “Well done, wizard,” with a dignified nod.
    “The enchanted sword of Hamarak the Invincible, King of Dendorric,” he said with a gesture toward the slowly swaying blade.
    “This one won’t make me the finest swordsman in the world, will it?” asked Hamarak wistfully.
    “No. But you could always practice on your own,” Kedrigern pointed out.
    Hamarak accepted the suggestion with a resigned shrug. He took up the genuine Panstygia and handed her to the wizard, then rose to inspect the duplicate. When he was out of earshot, the sword gave a little hist to attract Kedrigern’s attention.
    “I’m not happy about leaving Hamarak,” she whispered. “He’s a decent young man, but he needs a firm hand to guide him.”
    “He’ll learn,” Kedrigern assured her.
    “I’m not so sure. He’s a peasant, and they’re all a bit—”
    A sharp knock at the door of the throne room interrupted her observation. “The servants were told not to disturb us,” Panstygia said with vexation.
    “You mentioned dinner. Perhaps it’s ready. But we can’t let the servants see two blades. If you’ll permit me—”
    “No need, wizard,” said the blade coolly. She twitched in his grip, the air reverberated with a clear chiming tone, and Kedrigern held a black staff. With a low whistle, he said, “Vorvas may have been a consummate swine, but he certainly knew his stuff. That’s first-rate magic.”
    A guard opened the door and peered in cautiously. “My lord Hamarak, the bread you requested has arrived,” he announced.
    “Send it in,” Hamarak ordered.
    “And the people to clean the palace are here, as well, my lord.”
    “Tell them to wait.”
    The door closed behind the guard and reopened to admit a girl bearing a tray on which three fragrant loaves lay under a clean white napkin. The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the throne room. Hamarak looked on hungrily as the girl uncovered the loaves. Then he looked at the girl, and a light came into his eyes that had been summoned up previously only by the sight and scent of raisin pumpernickel bread hot from the oven.
    The girl was young and very comely, buxom of figure, sweet of expression, light of foot. Her brown hair hung in thick curls nearly to her slender waist. She was simply and neatly dressed, with only a smudge of flour on cheek and forearm to attest to her haste. She held out her tray and looked up at Hamarak with wide violet eyes and a shy smile. King and subject gazed at each other for a long time, unmoving, in profound silence.
    “Your bread, my lord Hamarak,” she said in a breathy, childlike voice.
    “Are you the baker?” he asked.
    “I am Berrian, the baker’s daughter,” she replied with a bow. “You met my father earlier today, after your victory.”
    “A little fat man gave me bread. I didn’t see you, Berrian."
    She lowered her eyes, and with a catch in her voice, said, “I was within, recovering from my fright. Had it not been for you, Dendorric was lost, my bold lord Hamarak.”
    “You don’t have to be afraid anymore. Panstygia and I will protect you,” said Hamarak, plucking the sword from the tabletop, setting his jaw grimly, and gazing with narrowed eyes into the distance.
    Setting down the tray, Berman stepped closer. “You’re so brave . . . and so alone,” she said huskily.
    Hamarak shook his head and reached out to take her hand. “A