The Undead Sorcerer

Chapter 8

"This medical tent is only the second clinic people can receive treatment," Vincent remarks as Gregory and Vincent nail stakes into the ground to prevent the wind from tearing it apart. With a little more effort, sweat, and luck, it should withstand any storms that may come through.

"What of the other clinic?" Edward inquires.

"Small. It's only suitable for a few coming and going. Not for anyone staying more than a few minutes. There are people here that may need to spend the night as is," Vincent points out.

"I see," Edward agrees with a nod. Dylan walks out of the church, broom in hand, and takes an exhausted deep breath. The kid might be annoying, but he doesn't break until we return to our lodgings. That break can't come soon enough. I forgot what a strain this magic has become. I need a cold, stiff drink and my sedative. If I'm using magic, I'll need to make more of it soon and in advance for it to have time to brew.

"Morning, Alistair," Vincent calls me over, bounding around the corner.

"Morning," I blurt out, "Ha-hey, how'd you know I was coming?" I inquire.

"Good lord, you're this drunk already?" Vincent gawks at me, stumbling down the stairs.

"I'm not drunk; I'm totally fine!," I dismiss him, "And I-I had a long day yesterday, you know, fighting and such," I excuse myself, "So what you want?" I continue. Vincent's brows raise as he scoffs, shaking his head.

"Well, you've been requested by the King in his private office," Vincent explains.

"Rotting boneyards," I swear, "Like right now, are you for real?" I gawk at him.

"Yeah, any chance you can sober up a little bit?" Vincent inquires.

"No, not a chance in rotting hell," I lie, knowing full well that using an ounce of magic would lift some of the fog, but I'll be damned if I waste this. Vincent sighs and, without a word, leads me to his office. Inside, King Peter awaits us, seated at his desk with Edward. We join them, and I nearly miss the chair sitting down. "So, what am I in for?" I inquire. Edward looks to Vincent, who shrugs silently in response.

"Alright, let's begin. It's quite simple, actually, Alistair. We've received complaints of a giant harassing the farmers in their fields. They've completely abandoned an entire stretch of land and fear it may continue into the last of their fields," Peter explains, "I want you to lead a team and vanquish the giant," he instructs.

"Me? Why not send the city's military?" I laugh it off.

"Mere men and swords would have a difficult time. And mobilizing scholarly mages during their studies proves difficult," Peter disagrees.

"Did we not have magic task forces for these exact reasons?" I recall.

"I hardly think this requires their attention, and I would like to see new faces make themselves useful," Petter adds, making the room much heavier. Why do I get the feeling he's looking for something? While this is clearly a dire situation, are we also being tested?

"Why me now, you could pick anyone else to lead a team?" I have to ask; unease settles into my gut.

"You're the only one on the campaign who has any experience leading in my armies," Peter explains, and I gawk at the young king before me.

"Rotting boneyards, you're serious, you trotting sow," I swear at him, and Peter chuckles at my frank, vulgar vocabulary.

"Alistair, your mouth," Edward complains, hands over his mouth.

"What the blazes, has he lost his skulking mind?" I continue cursing, "You have a whole panel of Lieutenant Colonels you could have picked from, but you only picked one- and the worst one at that," I continue ridiculing the King. How could a man in such a position be such a fool? Peter sighs, running a hand through his dirty blond hair.