Free Fall of the Western Kings (Tirumfall Trilogy Book 1) by J Drew Brumbaugh Page A

horse and the big chestnut mare lowered her head to taste the tender grass.  Jarlz pulled off his furs and heavy breastplate and held them out at arm's length.  Miraculously, a hand-shaped tree limb swayed down and scooped them up.  The limb and its load disappeared back into the pine leaving no sign of the garments.  Gant stepped back bewildered, a small knot growing in his gut.
    Jarlz chuckled, motioned to the trees and said, “These are his servants.  Enchanted to receive guests. They'll hold your bulky gear until we depart.”
    “But. . . it's warm, and. . .” Gant waved his hand around trying to formulate all the questions he had.
    “Don't worry,” laughed Jarlz, “Abadis’ magic is powerful enough to control everything around this house, weather included.  Come on, get your things off, lad, and let's get inside.”
    Gant obeyed.  Warily he eyed the bough that took his furs and breastplate.  And then the two men walked to the door.
    The door opened as they approached.  Inside, the main room was warm and cheery despite a cluttered of jars, boxes, sacks, bowls, and other paraphernalia.  Shelves lined every wall and except for a small table with stools there was no furniture.  The roaring fire in the fireplace on the far wall put a golden glow on everything.  The old man Gant had seen at the window stood near the center of the room wrapped in dark robes, arms folded across his chest.
    “Sir Jarlz,” he said with a smile.  “It's been long since we sat together.  Welcome.”  He opened his arms and glided over to Jarlz, hugging him as a father would a son.  Then turning to Gant, “And this must be the nephew you're always talking about.  Grown up, is he?”
    “Yes, this is Gant, my sister's son and the son of my sword maker, her husband.  A fine man he's grown into wouldn't you say?”
    Gant bowed stiffly from the waist not sure what the proper greeting for a wizard was.  He said, “A pleasure to meet you, sir.”
    Jarlz turned back to Abadis.  “Gant and I are going to Devonshield.  Gant is entering.  What can you tell us about other entrants?”
    “There is time for serious talk later.  First, let us dine.  Surely you must be hungry from your long walk.  I'm hungry myself and I hate to talk of important matters on an empty stomach.”
     

 
     
     
     
    Chapter 11
     
     
    M eanwhile, Barlon Gorth sat at his table in the Mountain Castle, eating a meal of roast meat, crusty bread and an endless supply of ale.  His wizard, Razgoth, sat with him.
    “My Lord, are you certain we shall have the help of the craftsmen we capture?” asked Razgoth running his hand through his disheveled hair.
    “Razgoth, you worry too much.  We have ways to ensure they will give you all the help you need.  The timeline has only moved up a little.”  Barlon worried that his masterstroke would be too late and not catch Netherdorf in turmoil.  Already reports hinted that the nobles were less interested in the fate of the commoner, Gant, and more concerned about Barlon's growing armies.  A unified enemy was not good.  Perhaps his spies would yet be able to stir the pot a bit before the attack.
    At that moment, Shalmuthe, Barlon's stocky master spy rushed in, stopped behind a chair, and stood motionless waiting for his ruler to speak.
    “I hope you bring me good news,” said Barlon between chewing.  “Like maybe the Netherdorf nobles are going to revolt against their king.”
    “No. Nothing so important.”  His left hand went to the scar across his left cheek, rubbing it unconsciously.  “I thought you'd want to know that our attempts to intercept Gant on his way to Devonshield failed.”
    Razgoth jumped up.  “Failed.  I told you Gant would be trouble.”
    Barlon waved Razgoth back into his seat.  “Nothing has happened.  So he goes to Devonshield.  Until he wins there, it proves nothing.  But,” Barlon turned back to Shalmuthe, “how did you fail?  I thought you had it all