“So be it.” Calamidese and the goblin twice his size moved to the clearing Tarquak had prepared. Ogres surrounded it, and the orc hordes looked on from higher ground.
Swords flashed in the torch light. The general watched the king and goblin smash at each other repeatedly in a standoff lasting late into the night.
“Our goblin is taking his time dispatching the king, isn’t he?” Tarquak asked an aide beside him. The ogre frowned. “Oh, he’s one of your own, isn’t he?”
Tarquak turned to another aide, a goblin, and whispered, “Remind me to have that ogre whipped tomorrow for dereliction of duty in taking so long to kill the king. And keep an eye on this one here on the other side of me.”
Eventually, the goblin hesitated just a second too long in recovering from a sweeping arc that missed the king. Ducking, Calamidese turned in a full circle, avoiding the two-handed cut, and drove the royal sword up and deep into the goblin’s chest, killing him instantly.
Tarquak jumped up from his seat and motioned the ogres to gather around him. “A lucky blow, Your Majesty.” He looked around him and saw the ogre commanders nodding their heads at each other in clear admiration. “It wasn’t a true match. You must fight again, and next time no tricks.” Tarquak rose to leave.
“I defeated your goblin fairly,” Calamidese said. He was breathing hard; sweat rolled down his face and arms, and he stood bent over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath.
“You all saw the king trick this goblin,” Tarquak said. He looked around for support; there was no agreement. His face flushed. “Nevertheless, you must prove your win again.” Instead of withdrawing, General Tarquak used his advantage of numbers and site control to send in a fresh challenger to the king.
“That ain’t right,” a voice in the crowd said behind the ogres.
“Who said that?” Tarquak asked. He looked around, but no one stepped forward. “Find that soldier and chop off his head for challenging my decision.” The general turned back to King Calamidese. “Fight my champion or die now.”
The second battle was uneven with the king exhausted and the ogre fresh, but the king fought the ogre to a draw.
“This stalemate wearies me,” Tarquak said to an aide. He stood as the battle slowed and hurled wizard-fire at the two combatants. The shot missed Calamidese and killed the ogre by mistake. “No matter, at least the stalemate has ended.”
“Will you withdraw your army from Sengenwhapolis?” Calamidese asked.
The general snarled at the question. He turned to Calamidese, his twisted face displaying unmasked rage.
“You’ll suffer for humiliating me and expelling me from the city before. I have no intention of withdrawing the siege.” Tarquak saw his own army’s restlessness. Its sympathy was with the victorious, but exhausted, king.
“Then this was for nothing,” Calamidese said. He looked first at his generals and then the ogres.
“Kill him!” Tarquak screamed, jumping from his field seat.
A cold, vengeful soul, the wraith saw his lieutenants admired the king. They stood at attention, silently saluting King Calamidese.
Tarquak’s arm jerked straight, pointing at the king as if the ogres didn’t hear his commands. “You have arrows, shoot the king!” he screamed. The general looked left and right, but the ogres refused the order.
Seeing the wraith’s treachery, King Calamidese’s generals moved to surround the king.
Enraged, the wraith shot wizard-fire from his seat above the hastily created arena. Sizzling through the charged air, the bolt struck and killed King Calamidese. Tarquak looked around him, his satisfaction reflected in his smile. “Pity, I missed, I intended a gut shot that he might suffer longer.”
A deadly silence followed. The general looked side to side for approving cheers that weren’t forthcoming. His smile faded, and his eyes narrowed. He slammed his fist on the armrest of his chair, rose, and rushed from his observation box above the arena.
The ogres broke from their circle that formed the showground and formed a line between their commander and the dead king. Sengenwhan commanders formed their shields into a stretcher and others lifted the king onto it. From a distance, Tarquak watched as the Sengenwhan took their king back to his city, protected by the ogres that had witnessed the treachery.
*
The next day, both sides stood down while the defenders honored Calamidese and burned his body on a bier that consumed the Sekcmet Palace in its conflagration. Sengenwhan and Dreaddracians alike ceased activities and watched as the flames signaled the end of the noble reign and King Calamidese’s ancient dynasty.
When he arose after dusk, General Tarquak watched the smoke rising from the palace ruins above the city walls.
“They’re disheartened now,” he said. He turned to his aides, who straightened to attention but remained silent. Tarquak held up a rolled petition in his hand. “The last Sengenwhan defenders have petitioned to surrender if they’ll be allowed to put down their weapons and turn over the city.” He smirked. His aides said nothing, but even the dead soul felt the cold silence.
“I didn’t want to lose the advantage,” he said. Still the aides said nothing. Tarquak turned back to his field desk.
“I want the orcs to slaughter the defenders and enslave the remaining citizens for the insult I suffered when forced to abandon Sengenwhapolis earlier.”
Again, the ogres said nothing, but they remained standing, apparently refusing to deliver the general’s order to the orc troops.
“Very well,” Tarquak said. He looked at the floor or things on the desk, avoiding the aide’s eyes. He gripped his sword’s handle. “I’ll allow the remaining defenders to leave the city.”
Only then did one of the aides leave the general’s headquarters to pass this information along to the troops.
From his headquarters the next day, Tarquak listened to, but didn’t go see, the despondent, ragtag army leaving Sengenwhapolis to follow Bodrin. They marched east over the mountains toward Botahar to fight another day.
I’ll have my revenge on my own troops later when I order them into hopeless battles, but for now, I’ll have to comply with their demands and allow the defenseless Sengenwhan population to live, he thought.
* * *
Smegdor hurried up the stone stairs and along the corridor to the master’s workroom within the Munattahensenhov, responding to a summons. The cold stones make my leg ache so, he thought, but if I don’t appear fast enough, the king will vaporize me and replace me with someone faster. I still wonder why the king keeps me as his personal attendant since I’m crippled. He enjoys seeing me suffer, I suppose. “Coming, Master,” Smegdor replied, hobbling as fast as he could.
“Smegdor!” the Dark Lord yelled again.
“I’m coming, Master,” Smegdor called out.
Smegdor rushed into the workroom and up to the sorcerer. Smoke from the numerous foundry fires deep within the mountain merged with the stale air in the Munattahensenhov. The acrid smoke mingled with sweet smoke from burning flesh in the workroom. An oily residue coated everything. The room’s energy-charged atmosphere made the Dark Lord’s spindly hair frizz as he worked, oblivious to sparks popping from the fire behind him.
“Bring wine; I wish to celebrate,” the king said.
“Yes, Master,” Smegdor replied. Silently, he slipped to the door and sent a frightened underling to fetch the wine.
“Aren’t you going to ask me what I’m celebrating?”
“It must be special.” Smegdor flashed a nervous smile, then looked down again. His mood can turn on a word, he thought.
“The Wizard of Sengenwhapolis is dead, vaporized, I expect, judging by the energy field’s surge,” the king said.
He’s anticipating the southern defeat, Smegdor thought.
“There’s been warping in the energy fields for days, suggesting major battles, but I’m reasonably sure Sengenwha has fallen now,” the king added. “Most likely Ozrin, I suppose; he manipulates his energy b
etter than General Tarquak.”
The unseen servant left the wine outside the door and fled in silence. Smegdor opened and poured the wine, handing the Evil One the goblet.
I hope he doesn’t see the wine rippling from my shaking hand, Smegdor thought. “That’s wonderful news, Master.” I feel sorry for those defeated Sengenwhan people, but my master is sure to win in the end. No one can withstand his power long. If they saw the tumultuous, seething forces in the Munattahensenhov’s bowels, they’d know that.
“Have a goblet of wine with me, Smegdor,” the king said. He pointed to the wine tray.
Smegdor’s stomach was turning. A wrong word and the good humor could vanish explosively. He poured himself a goblet of wine and held it, not wanting drink to dull his senses and reflexes he might need any instant.
“With all their attention focused on Sengenwha, no one will expect or be prepared for what comes next,” the king said.
Smegdor left to return the wine to a closet across from the workroom, where he kept things likely to be called for on a moment’s notice. When he returned, the king was still mumbling to himself, his thumbs stroking the goblet he clutched. He’s plotting away and enjoying himself immensely.
“Is your wine satisfactory, Majesty?”
“What is this sludge?” the king said. He spun around and hurled the goblet at ducking Smegdor. It smashed into a red blossom on the wall. “Clean that mess up and get me a decent vintage.”
Smegdor trembled. He limped over to the shattered goblet and began picking up the pieces. The aching from constantly bending over to pick up these shards must show on my face, but I better not make a sound, he thought. When he’d cleaned up all the mess, he turned to the king.
“What wine would you like, Magnificence?” Smegdor asked, mumbling apologies for having the wrong wine, a selection another had made.
“Something better than that sludge,” the king replied.
He entertains himself by tormenting me, Smegdor thought. The answer was no answer. It leaves me open for another attack should he choose to amuse himself further at my expense. We both recognize the ploy, but I can’t avoid it. I’ll have to go down to the wine cellar myself for a different bottle that he might destroy as quickly.
“Very well, Majesty, I’ll make a better selection myself this time.”
“See to it you do, or it’ll be the worst for you,” the king yelled to the cripple hobbling down the stone staircase.
Smegdor went to search for a wine that probably wouldn’t be acceptable anyway. I suppose the master will flick his finger and vaporize the wine puddle on the floor. I’ll find it gone only after I return with a mop. The cruelty amuses him. I can hear his cold, muffled laughter.
* * *
In his tower, Memlatec felt the shifting power surges, too. He turned to the great horned owl resting on his perch in the corner but alert to the evening sounds. “Well, the High Wizard of Sengenwha is dead, and most likely King Calamidese is dead, as well. The struggle in Sengenwhapolis is over and the prevailing power there, evil.”
Having pounced on a mouse disturbed by the wizard’s pacing, the bird had just flown back to his perch with mouse hanging from his beak. Memlatec pretended not to notice as the owl swallowed the rodent. The great owl followed the wizard with his eyes as he paced about on the stone floor.
Suddenly, Memlatec stared straight at the owl. “That means the forces of Dreaddrac now control Sengenwhapolis again, you see. I can only warn Saxthor. There’s no way to prevent the pain that will follow. The dowager queen and Princess Dagmar will be inconsolable. It will have a profound effect on Saxthor, as well. Not only has he lost his newly found friend, but the last obstacle restraining an invasion of Neuyokkasin is gone.”
The old wizard went to his divining pool and rubbed a lock of Count Vicksnak’s hair between his hands while reciting an incantation. He was careful not to let his long white beard get into the mix of hairs. With the energy in the hair warmed and charged, Memlatec dropped the lock into the water and saw Bodrin riding at the head of a pitiful band of men. From the morning light that shown on the count’s frowning face, Memlatec guessed they headed east toward Botahar and not toward the capital. The people behind Bodrin’s men were blurred in the vision, but they weren’t his own troops, had no weapons, and looked worn out. Memlatec turned away from the pool as the vision faded and mist swirled over the scene.
“Sengenwhapolis has fallen. The few surviving defenders are now retreating to Botahar. Soon Dreaddrac’s army will move south to attack the Neuyokkasinian defenses.”
Memlatec passed his hand over the pool of visionary water, and the mist disappeared. The lock of hair rose to the surface, where the wizard carefully picked it up and returned it to a small drawer in the ingredients case behind the worktable.
“What should I tell the king and princess about their friend and brother, King Calamidese?” he asked the owl rhetorically. The owl stared back at him. Memlatec went to the door and out on the landing. “Aleman,” the tired old wizard called. “Aleman, could you come to the foot of the stairs?”
“What are you calling me for?” the crusty old housekeeper replied, coming from the kitchens still drying a serving platter, his worn sandals scraping on the stone floor. “Is something wrong with your dinner? It was fresh. If you’re going to complain about dinner, you need to remember that you’re old, and you can’t digest anything anyway.”
Aleman is working himself into a state, but this time I’m in no mood to spar with him. “Aleman, dinner was fine. I need to ask you a question,” the old wizard said in a placating tone.
Aleman cocked a suspicious eye at the sorcerer. “Is this a setup?” he asked. He moved closer to the stairwell and kept wiping the platter long after it was dry. Aleman was mumbling under his breath, “You do need my advice from time to time to straighten you out. What you wants to know?”
“When you’ve knowledge of something bad that will soon be known to others, do you tell them before they learn of it from the others?” Memlatec asked.
“I say let the bad news take its own time getting to them, that’s what I says. What’s the bad news?”
“Never you mind about that.” Memlatec could hear Aleman grumbling below.
“Worrisome old man, you’ve got some juicy news, but you won’t share it.”
Memlatec heard him put down the platter and start lumbering his way up the stairs to the workroom, wheezing with each step.
“I hates to climb these stairs and wouldn’t go near the workroom to clean it, but you’re holding something back and I’m determined to know what. Ain’t no sense in making an old man climb these stairs when you could just tell me over the railing.”
From behind his worktable, Memlatec heard Aleman grumbling, slowly making his way to the top of the tower. If the creaking railings aren’t enough, the huffing and puffing can be heard through the whole tower. “Go back downstairs. I’m not about to tell a gossiping old poop news I don’t want to tell the king.”
Memlatec chuckled at a clever idea, then, casting a spell, levitated himself and floated out the window to the ground below. He listened carefully.
“Where are you, you old fool?” Memlatec heard Aleman ask as he grumbled, searching the room. “How dare you disappear after I’ve climbed all those stairs?”
“You looking for me, Aleman?” Memlatec shouted from the ground floor.
“How’d you get down there, you tricky old goat?”
“You said you never go to the workroom,” the wizard responded with a wry grin. “While you’re up there, clean the room and remember not to touch the ingredients cases!” Memlatec left the tower for Helshian Court Palace. He could hear Aleman shouting curses at him from the balcony as he rode to town. Having gotten the best of Aleman, the wizard laughed until he nearly fell off his horse.
* * *
Earwig and Dreg camped for the night in a crumbling abandoned barn to escape the dreary rain that had developed in late afternoon. Rain trick
led in everywhere from the holes in the decaying roof. A musty smell of mold permeated the place. Dreg saw the witch looking around, rolling her eyes again.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dreg asked Zendor, who refused to enter the barn. “You smell something inside that scares you? Zendor senses something ain’t right in there, Miss Earwig.”
“That gasbag is the source of all the smell except for the mold,” Earwig said and continued into the barn. She yelled over her shoulder, “Probably the mold, too.” With Zendor tied up outside, the two travelers lay down for the night in the now dark barn. Near midnight, Dreg woke to a rustling in the hay nearby. A momentary streak of moonlight shot through the clouds, down through a hole in the roof, illuminating a great greasy troll. His muscled arms swung back, about to bring his club down on Dreg’s head. Dreg rolled out of the way, but the troll moved to redirect his swing.
“Ouch!” screamed Earwig, jerking back her hand just stepped on, unbalancing the troll.
The moonlight disappeared. The barn plunged into total darkness. Scuffling began in the pitch black interior. No one knew who was who. Hay flew up all around. Groans were everywhere, along with Earwig’s screams. The club swooshing by in the dark near Earwig must have unbalanced her. The three creatures scurried about, trying to locate each other in the murky staleness to the constant thud of the troll’s club slamming the floor and timbers.
Earwig eventually lit a finger-torch. When she did, her hand was very near the troll’s face. The small flame cast a golden light on the creature’s oversized, greasy facial features, making them even more pronounced and terrifying. The light accentuated the witch’s marbled-purple face, and the troll jumped back from her. Both yelled and Earwig jumped back, extinguishing her finger-torch, throwing them in total darkness again.
“This way,” Dreg called out to Earwig, having found a sliver of light passing through a crack in the barn door.
But rather than run, Dreg heard Earwig casting spells into the ebony interior as the troll continued swinging his club. Dreg heard Earwig fuming the more the troll avoided her spells. She’s obsessed with getting the best of him.
The Dreaddrac Onslaught (Book 4) Page 15