“Notice that the people who live inside the red wall are a little quieter about your arrival?” The General grinned. The sun reflected off of his bald head into Mikahl’s eyes. Mikahl had to squint when he looked back at him.
“Aye. Days of being cheered, then all of a sudden only stares and nods inside the wall. Why?”
“Outside the walls,” the General leaned in close so that he could whisper, “the craven king’s power is thin. They would put you in his seat in a moment, I assure you. But here, inside the walls, Broderick has thousands of ears and a much stronger base of support. He’ll lick your boots, but he’ll do it in private.”
If the capital of Valleya was unimpressive compared to Xwarda or Castlemont (before Pael had destroyed them), then King Broderick was a total letdown. The large, fleshy man was robed in wrinkled layers of golden cloth trimmed in red. His black hair and beard were thick, curly, and unkempt, and the people who were gathered around him at the top of the castle’s entry stair looked about as happy to be there as they would at their own execution.
Mikahl had an urge and followed it. Before the craven king could say a word, he spurred Thunder forward and quickly closed the space between him and the foot of King Broderick’s entry stair. The Valleyan King’s Guard was surprised by the move, but more than one of them stepped up, with hand on hilt, ready, if a little reluctantly, to defend their big sloppy king. Mikahl drew Ironspike and the purplish glow of its blade was clearly visible in the midday sun. The people around Broderick, guardsmen included, instantly shrunk back from him. It was as if they all half-expected Mikahl to take off the man’s head in that instant. King Broderick himself seemed only slightly impressed by Mikahl’s display. Still, he was more than a little nervous as he glanced over at his court announcer and gave a sharp nod. “Thump! Thump! Thump!” sounded the butt of a staff on the sun-baked clay surface. “All hail High King Mikahl Collum, the Blessed Uniter.”
Reluctantly, King Broderick went to a knee. Every person in sight of the scene followed suit, save for one, a slim man who was dressed quite regally and standing in the castle’s entry way behind King Broderick’s retinue. Mikahl’s eyes met his and the man gave a nod of respect, no more, no less. Mikahl smiled and returned the gesture.
At least there’s one here not ready to lick my boots, Mikahl thought, and found that he had more respect for the one in the doorway than anyone else he’d met here so far.
“Rise,” Mikahl commanded with forced authority in his voice. He had to bite back a laugh when he heard General Spyra mumble under his breath, “He might be too fat to get up.”
General Spyra was correct, for two men quickly stepped up on each side of the Valleyan king and helped him to his feet. All around them, the Valleyan people started to cheer. The look on Broderick’s bright red face showed that this wasn’t the introduction he had envisioned, and that he was none too pleased about the situation. The smiles on the faces around the King of Valleya showed Mikahl that it was an introduction they had enjoyed, though. King Broderick had been put in his place swiftly, and publicly, right from the start, and those who’d seen it, especially the curious man in the doorway, had enjoyed it immensely. Mikahl wasn’t really amused, though. In fact, he found that he was disgusted by the way Broderick carried himself.
Chapter Eleven
The boat Dreg loaned Lord Gregory was as small as a watercraft could be and still be considered a boat. It was nothing more than a child’s skiff, with two oar locks, a rudder for steering, and two bench seats. With Lord Gregory and the man Dreg sent to escort him both sitting in it, the boat sat so low in the water that the slightest ripple threatened to wash over the sides.
The deal was fairly simple: Dreg would keep the chunk of gold, the horse, and Lord Gregory’s sword until he returned with or without his wife. If he did indeed return, they would travel to the cavern Lord Gregory said he had wintered in, where he had supposedly found the nonexistent deposit of gold. From there it would be an equal split. Lord Gregory had no choice in the matter that he could see. He hated to give up his sword, but it was only an object. His wife’s well-being was far more important to him than the blade.
Dreg was a snake, a slaver, and an opportunistic thug. There was a time when Lord Gregory would have imposed justice in King Balton’s name, and taken the man’s hands off, or worse. As it was, Dreg had the boats, and the men. Lord Gregory was nothing but a broken down cripple who was patiently bailing water from the boat as Dreg’s man, Grommen, cursed and pulled on the oars.
The flow of the river channel was carrying them in the right direction, but the boat kept drifting into the deep swamp grass along the edge of the marshes. It was a repetitive pattern: row over close to the western bank and then drift down river and back across the channel toward the swamp grass for most of an hour, row back, and start all over. By working the rudder to maximum effect, the crosscurrent drift could be delayed, but not avoided. They had taken turns rowing at first, but Grommen saw the pain in Lord Gregory’s face when he tried to work the oars. He’d taken over then. Not so much because he was chivalrous or kind, mind you, but because of the bugs. The western bank and the main flow of the channel were relatively free of them, but along the marsh grass of the eastern edge there were swarms upon swarms of flying, stinging, itching things that Grommen couldn’t stand.
Lord Gregory had a mind to get them deep in the grass, thinking that while Grommen was fighting the bugs, he might be able to get him over the side of the boat, or possibly even get his dagger into the man’s neck. If he thought he had the strength in him to manage the boat by himself, he might have done it. He didn’t, so he patiently bailed the water that seeped and slopped into the craft and watched with a sinking heart as they went floating by the upriver outposts of Settsted Stronghold one by one.
The single towered, squat gray stone buildings were manned now by glittery green-scaled, bug-eyed, lizard-men wearing mismatched pieces of armor. Lord Ellrich’s proud river guardsmen used to have that duty. What bothered Lord Gregory the most was the banner flying in place of Westland’s prancing lion. The bright yellow trio of crossed lightning bolts on the black field was irksome. The zard-man sentries, and their huge geka lizard mounts, weren’t even necessary at the outposts. There was no threat of attack from the swamp now.
The zard were natural creatures of the marshes and they came and went across the river freely into the endless expanse of muck that stretched from Westland’s border, south and east, all the way to Dakahn.
It was surprising that the boat went along unmolested. Not once were they hailed or stopped as they drifted down the channel. They passed a few fishing boats and were waved at by the human boys and zard working together in the nets, but not much else. His worries were blanked out of his mind when he got his first glimpse of Settsted itself. The ancient stronghold had fortified all of the men who manned the outposts along the marshland border. It had stood longer than Westland’s history had been recorded. Now it was nothing more than a crumbling ruin. The great green moss covered stones of its outer protective walls and main structure were scorched black and caved in.
The village that stood between the stronghold and the river was alive with humans and zard-men alike. Many of the old dwellings still lay in piles, but plenty of new ones had sprouted up. And the dock, an over long wooden intrusion out into the river channel, was as crowded and alive as Lord Gregory had ever seen it.
It was an eerie feeling, seeing the familiar place under such unfamiliar conditions. The blasted golden lightning-bolt banner rippled and furled from the stronghold’s remaining tower, from the masts of the larger vessels tied to the docks, too. The strange lizard-men, with their fist-sized black eyes and their long tapering tails, moved and worked amongst the young boys and older human men as if they’d been doing so forever. To Lord Gregory, it was as fascinating as it was sickening.
He had no doubt now that Lord Ellrich had fallen. Either here, or in the battle for Wildermont, he couldn’t say, but he knew th
at his oversized friend would have rather died than allow the land they both loved to be taken over by skeeks.
As Settsted faded behind them, Lord Gregory hit on the hardest question about the situation. How could you take Westland back? The people seemed content with the conditions. If this so-called Dragon Queen was fair and just, who would help Mikahl reclaim his birthright? Who would want to? Obviously the land was doing better than it would have with Glendar running it. Lord Gregory wasn’t too quick to judge the situation, though. Things might be going smoothly along the marshes where there was more work to do in a day than a man could get done, but what of Lakeside Castle, or the city outside its gates? What of the men who were being whipped to pull that breed giant up and down the streets of Locar? No, those with the strength to rise up against these things that had taken over would most likely do so, if they had leadership. The problem was, there was no one left here but old men and young boys. It made Lord Gregory’s blood boil. There was no honor in marching over the helpless, and he found himself spitting the taste of it over the side of the little boat into the river.
“Strange to look upon, eh?” Grommen said. He was manning the tiller now, trying to slow the boat’s way over toward the swarming swamp grass.
“Very,” Lord Gregory replied. He turned his gaze on the man in the boat and studied him.
Grommen was a barrel of a man, stout and hard, but not quite as tall as Lord Gregory. His studded and ringed leather armor vest was well worn and boasted several battle scars on its finish. Grommen had a square face with a prominent jaw covered by ginger whiskers. The hair on his head was a few shades lighter. He was a handful of years younger than Lord Gregory, and his dark eyes were stern, but not too serious. The man’s accent was a mixture of Valleyan and Dakaneese. All in all, he was built like a rounded block of stone. It was clear that the sword at his hip was no stranger to him. He was there to make sure Lord Gregory returned to show Dreg the location of the nonexistent cavern full of gold, yet Lord Gregory sensed an air of defiance about the man. He hadn’t made even the slightest of threatening moves toward him since they had left Dreg back in Low Crossing. In fact, Grommen had barely said a word until now.
“We’ll make camp after we pass the next outpost,” Grommen said. “I know a place where we shan’t be hassled.”
“Whatever you say,” Lord Gregory agreed sarcasticly.
“Look man,” Grommen started with narrowed brows. “I know, and you know, that you’ll not be coming back to show that donkey where the gold is, if there even is any. This…” He pounded at his chest, at the insignia of the mercenary company he worked for embroidered upon it. “This is our only pass key. I might kill for coin, but I’m no slaver like Captain Dreg. Give me an unruly lordling to fight in a field of battle, or a troubled patch of road where I can kill bandits, or be one, but I’m no slaver. I don’t deal in human flesh.” He cursed then, and let go of the tiller. He swatted at that gnats beginning to swarm around his head then took the oars up again and started desperately rowing them away from the marsh grass.
The sun was getting low in the sky. Lord Gregory imagined Grommen was tired. He had rowed them back across the river’s hardy current at least a dozen times. Lord Gregory wasn’t sure what Grommen’s little speech was leading to, so he chose his words carefully, but before he could open his mouth, Grommen looked up and began speaking between his heavy pulls on the oars.
“I seen ya… Ungh! Seen you take the Valleyan fighter down… Ungh! I lost a fat purse that night a few years ago, Lord Lion. I know who you really are.” He stopped rowing and met Lord Gregory’s eyes. “You did right back there. He would have killed you had you not told them lies. From now on, I’m your paid escort. You’re a merchant, come to Westland from Dakahn and you’re going to pay me good, Lord Gregory. My treachery is most expensive.”
Lord Gregory could find nothing to say to that, but he found a huge smile on his face. Of course, sooner or later, someone had to recognize him. How could he have thought differently? He was a renowned champion of Summer’s Day. His name was etched into the Spire itself. His only regret at the moment was the fact that Dreg had his sword.
At the fire that night Lord Gregory learned of Mikahl’s triumph over Pael. A load was lifted off of his heavy heart. From what Grommen was telling him, Mikahl had Willa the Witch Queen’s armies behind him now and was working on rebuilding and uniting the eastern kingdoms. It seemed amazing to him—Ironspike’s power being wielded by young Mikahl was an incredible thought. Mikahl, when he had been Lord Gregory’s squire, had been the talk of the training yard. By the time he started squiring for King Balton he was recognized as the best young swordsman in Westland. King Balton had kept Mikahl out of battle, though, even at Coldfrost. Lord Gregory had never understood why until King Balton died. King Balton hadn’t wanted Mikahl to draw any sort of attention to himself.
With the good and welcome news of Pael’s defeat and King Glendar’s demise came some bad news, though. Most anybody of note in Westland, be they lord, lady, or wealthy merchant, had been sold cheaply to King Ra’Gren of Dakahn, who was now ransoming them to anybody who would pay. More than one Westland lady was now a pet, or a slave to a Dakaneese overlord who could afford such an exquisite trophy.
The idea of his Trella being forced to service some greasy old Dakaneese bastard sickened Lord Gregory. He had sent young Wyndall off to warn her when the fighting first started at Summer’s Day. He hoped and prayed that she understood the warning, and somehow made it out of Westland before the zard attack. He had friends, many of them older men who would not have been drafted into Glendar’s military campaign. Hopefully some of them had survived and would know of Trella’s fate. And what had become of young Lady Zasha? Lord Ellrich’s daughter was a budding girl, the apple of her father’s eye. Lord Gregory owed it to his friend to try and find her as well. If he had to, he would buy them from the Dakaneese slavers. There was no price too high. He would find the coin one way or another.
Just before midday the next day, they came upon the last of the Settsted watchtowers. Here the river split yet again around the heavily wooded island of Salaphel. Salaphel had a small port on the far side where they shipped out barges full of timbers to the rest of the realm. Grommen took the westward flowing branch that would carry them out to where the river met the sea at Southport. The going became slower, the force of the spring melt on the river’s current lessened where the river was wider. Here the water was a brackish affair, and the tidal pull of the moon worked at times for the current, and sometimes against it. Lord Gregory rowed as often, and for as long as he could, but it wasn’t much compared to Grommen’s determined effort. The mercenary had taken a more vigorous interest in his own defection from Dreg’s company when Lord Gregory had shown him the fat sack of golden Westland coins he still had in his pack. There were forty of them, a small fortune in times like these. Grommen happily took ten of them as a down payment for his services, which was twice what he’d make in half a year working for Dreg.
“I knew I was making the right choice,” he said with a grin. “But know this, Lord Lion. I expect more—a lot more. After Dreg figures this out, after he knows what I’m about here, he’ll put a healthy price on my head, and I’d hate not to be able to afford to return the favor.”
“If you help me find the Lady Trella and Lady Zasha,” Lord Gregory replied, “I’ll make you a lord and personally mount Dreg’s head on the gate of your keep for you.”
“I’ll help you do it,” Grommen grinned, “but even if we don’t find them ladies, you still owe me.”
“Aye,” Lord Gregory nodded that he understood.
It was with this stronger bond of gold-sealed promises that the two of them worked their way westward.
Grommen rode them up to a dock at the outskirts of the town of Oraphel. It was just after noon and the dock was only mildly busy.
“Why are we stopping?” asked Lord Gregory.
“You need yourself a hooded cloak for one. If I can
spot who you really are, so can your countrymen. The ones that are still alive that is,” Grommen said. “Besides that, you’re supposed to be a wealthy Dakaneese merchant looking for wares. We can’t row up to Southport in a bucket looking like starving dogs.”
Lord Gregory laughed at his good fortune. He would pay this big intelligent oaf one way or the other. The man was no fool, and he was risking his life and reputation to help him.
As instructed, Lord Gregory waited in the boat while Grommen walked into Oraphel. No one bothered him. He kept his head down. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched one of the zard-men cleaning the bottom and sides of a fishing boat that was still in the water. The zard would scrub one side of the boat from the deck down then keep going under it, staying submerged for impossibly long lengths of time. The zard-man would appear again on the other side in a rush of bubbles and work his way up to the deck. Then he would move over a few feet and work his way back down, scrubbing briskly with his brush as he went under again. Another zard dove in to help him, and Lord Gregory saw how fast the lizard-men could swim. It was like watching a snake slithering across the river’s surface.
“Does he get to keep the thin man?” A voice from the dock above startled Lord Gregory. He looked up to see Grommen and the man who’d spoken, along with a commanding looking zard-man whose big black eyes reflected the world around him in such a distorted way that Lord Gregory had to look away from them.
“The thin man is my master,” Grommen said with a grin that only Lord Gregory could see. The other man said something in a gurgling clicking language to the lizard-man. The zard responded and the men translated for them.
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