Kings, Queens, Heroes, & Fools

by M. R. Mathias

  Prince Raspaar was forced to stop speaking and had to use all his concentration and skill as a swordsman to defend against Mikahl’s next attack. Thankfully, the assault only lasted for a few minutes. It ended when Mikahl toppled the man and then hurled his own practice sword into a thicket. Mikahl huffed out a heavy sigh of frustration and started walking toward the bushes to get his weapon. His mind was churning with angry, but hopeful possibilities. The Prince was talking again and the words he was saying we’re like slow fertilizer to Mikahl’s ideas.

  “Of course,” Prince Raspaar continued. “We cannot rely on goods from the east sent by ship at this time.”

  Mikahl stopped, picked up the practice sword, then asked, “Why not?”

  “Dakaneese pirates are as thick as carrion after battle.” Raspaar had the courtesy to wince at his bad choice of comparisons, but he continued anyway. “It’s well known that Queen Shaella is half Dakaneese and somewhat particular to King Ra’Gren and his kingdom. They say that she despises his use of slaves for labor, but that didn’t stop her from selling the noble folk of Westland to him. The Dakaneese pirates seem to avoid any ships flying her lightning star banner. All other ships sail at their own peril. It’s nearly impossible to avoid the murderous scavengers along the coast between O’Dakahn and Southport. The Salazarkians have worked out an extended sea route to Seaward City, a credit to Queen Rachel’s cunning, I’m sure. They seem to be able to elude the pirates, but the cost effectiveness of a lesser island kingdom like ours using the Salazarkian ships is counter productive.”

  “So you’re telling me that, if and when the trade routes are free of Dakaneese pirates, your kingdom will start trading with the eastern kingdoms for your needed goods?” Mikahl didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped closer as he pressed on. “What if I…” He darted quickly then and went into an attack with his sword. This press was a little more forceful than the Prince was accustomed to. In the span of three heart beats Prince Raspaar’s sword was spinning across the yard. After it clanged to the earth, Mikahl only shrugged with an innocent grin on his face.

  “So you could eventually sail a ship full of horses right up into Southport or even Portsmouth in Westland?”

  The Prince glanced at his sword lying several feet away in the trampled grass. He had heard rumors of Mikahl’s true abilities with the blade, so he wasn’t surprised, or offended, by the sudden defeat. He had come to like Mikahl’s straightforward attitude and the way he cut through the formalities of his position to get right to the point of things. The possibilities that King Mikahl was just now beginning to see had been in Raspaar’s mind all day along. Raspaar felt in his gut that Mikahl would eventually bring Dakahn down and retake Westland. To have the High King as a friend was an honor, whether Mikahl succeeded in those two ventures or not, but if he did succeed, the bond would be the best thing that ever happened to Salaya. To the people Prince Raspaar was sworn to protect, that was what mattered most.

  With a devilish grin of his own, he bowed to Mikahl’s training yard victory, and felt triumphant with his own political score. “High King Mikahl,” the Prince whispered as he rose from his bow. “Not only would ships full of horses be sailing right into Westland’s harbors, but the agents of our equine importing houses could move about Westland’s cities completely unmolested. Salaya is such a little non-threatening island kingdom, and King Broderick’s treachery doesn’t have to catch your attention, or Queen Willa’s. Just think, in a matter of months, you could know every little thing about Westland’s situation.”

  “We’ll need to find you a less notable supplier of horses than the King of Valleya,” Mikahl said. “He won’t be available. It shouldn’t be hard, though, every other man in Dreen is a fargin breeder.”

  “I see,” the Prince replied curiously, wondering what exactly it was that Mikahl had in store for King Broderick.

  ***

  Two days later, General Spyra started back toward Xwarda with one hundred and one less men in his host than had come. Thirty archers, thirty infantry, and forty cavalrymen stayed behind with the High King. The day after Spyra marched back east, Mikahl took his little army out of Dreen’s north gate on a northwesterly course up into the Wilder Mountains. King Broderick lent fifty of his specially chosen blue-cloaked pikemen to the group.

  Mikahl didn’t hurry them, even though he felt a certain desire to do so. They took their time going through the mountains and stuck to the trampled path of the Westland army’s passage. That host had numbered nearly ten thousand, and almost a year after they had come through, the evidence of their passing was still quite clear. Like a well-travelled road a lane of dirt and destruction wound its way over the rocky ridges and down into the green valleys. Where the forest infringed upon the way, it had been hewn down by the Westlanders’ axes. Where the way had been rocky, boulders and other scree had been cleared to the side. Deep ruts, where hundreds of supply wagons had rolled through, gouged the earth, and the stone rings of a thousand campfires dotted the landscape.

  They made good time even at their relaxed pace. For three days their movements were slowed even further by heavy rainfall, but Mikahl didn’t let them stop. Not even when they were forced to wade waist deep, with their horses in tow, through a flooded valley while lightning flashed all around them. Mikahl had left his fancy pavilion tent behind and was using a standard issue canvas just like the others. His only luxury was that he didn’t have to share his lodgings with three other soldiers.

  The last night of the rain storm a rider came into the encampment bearing messages for Mikahl. He had been expecting one message, but was handed three. The first was from General Spyra. It was the one he had been expecting. After dismissing the messenger to the mess kettle, he broke the General’s seal and unrolled the scroll. It read:

  I’ve done as you asked, and things are in order as you hoped for. A message quite unexpectedly arrived bearing the Prince of Salaya’s seal. I’ve enclosed it, and his messenger is still among my men. I thought it the best course of action to take due to his unexpected arrival. The third message, I fear, is dire news, but unless I receive a command from you ordering a change in my plans, things will go as we discussed.

  Your humble servant,

  General Thomas Spyra

  It was good to know that the General was ready, but it must be truly grave news for Spyra to think that Mikahl would change his plans now. He could guess what Prince Raspaar’s message said. King Broderick had betrayed him to King Ra’Gren, or something similar. Mikahl was glad to know that Raspaar was truly on his side. The young Prince would make a great king some day. He didn’t bother to break the seal on that message yet. He went straight to the third message. The seal on it, the seal of Xwarda, had already been broken as it was addressed to both Mikahl and General Spyra. It was from Queen Willa, and the news was staggering.

  Mikahl had to put the damp parchment down and catch his breath. He understood why Spyra might think he would change his course of action now. Maybe he would eventually, but not until he handled the matter of Dreg for King Jarrek. He couldn’t afford to dally with Broderick anymore, and a few more days of his absence wouldn’t affect the new situation much, if at all. Queen Willa would know what to do until he was done scouting. He would try and figure out a way to get Princess Rosa back from the Dragon Queen while he did it. The fact that Queen Shaella was bold enough to carry out Rosa’s capture and now demanded Mikahl’s head in return for the girl, made his blood boil. He was so mad he cursed Hyden Hawk for letting the bitch live.

  At least Hyden took her dragon from her, Mikahl thought. No doubt Princess Rosa’s mother, Queen Rachel, was at this very moment contemplating the value of his head. Surely her daughter’s life had to be more valuable. With King Jarrek in O’Dakahn, and Broderick working against him, what Queen Rachel chose to do here could very well turn the bulk of the east against him. He was at a loss. He wished for his father, or Lord Gregory, or even King Jarrek’s advice. They were all experienced diplomats and strateg
ists. He was nothing but a squire with a magical sword.

  He spent long hours that night, and every waking moment of the rest of the journey to Castlemont, turning over his possible courses of action. None of them seemed appropriate. He didn’t give up, though. King Balton had always said there was a way out of every situation, a way to turn every wrong into a right. Mikahl wasn’t sure he believed that at the moment, but he knew his father’s favorite saying: ‘Think, then act. If you aren’t doing either of those things then you’re really not doing anything at all.’ He scoured his brain like it was a cook’s dirty pot, searching for any idea he could think of that might help him save Princess Rosa. As the empty, ruined outskirts of Castlemont came into view, though, his mind began to grow numb.

  The mightiest castle in the land was wasted. The city around it was a ghostly desolation of nothing but shambled ruins and burned out shells. He spied a company of men up high amid the wreckage of the castle’s main structures and sent some of King Broderick’s mounted blue-cloaks to investigate. He knew what they were though—scavengers, grave robbers, looters of the dead. He figured they were working for somebody, maybe even Dreg. The idea of being enslaved and forced to pick through your own people’s corpses for valuables with a man behind you holding a whip made Mikahl sick with rage.

  He rode farther, spurred onwards by some unseen gut-clinching force that had him tasting bile in the back of his throat. Then he topped a small rise and saw what was left of the Locar crossing bridge and was even more taken aback. Across the river, the Westland city of Locar was bustling and had been fortified with wooden watchtowers along its side of the river. Queen Shaella’s black and yellow lightning star emblem flickered from a dozen banners, both near and far. Mikahl had to force his tears back. King Balton had been the proudest, most honorable man that had ever lived. The golden lion banner should be dancing in the wind here instead of the mockery before him.

  “As you said they would, Your Highness, the Valleyans have disappeared among the ruins,” one of the cavalry captains said.

  “Tell your men to be ready for an ambush,” Mikahl replied without looking at him. “Gather them quickly and we’ll ride in a tight group down toward Low Crossing. I think that is where it will happen.”

  “If I may be so bold, Your Highness, why are we going to ride into an ambush?”

  “In life, sometimes the rabbit is really a lion in disguise,” the High King said softly. “Have faith, Captain, I would not lead you blindly to your death.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to offend.”

  “Your wariness is wisdom,” Mikahl turned to face him and the sadness was instantly gone from his face. Now his expression held only checked fury and determination. The High King’s eyes were oceans of confidence and the Captain’s concerns were swallowed up in their depths.

  “As you command, Highness.” The Captain bowed his head then spurred his mount away to gather the men.

  Mikahl didn’t hide amongst them as they slowly worked their way southward. He led them. He put himself out in front of them and had Thunder prancing his most cocky strut as they went. Behind him, his men had their bows ready or their swords drawn. The men in the rear kept glancing back, trying to see where King Broderick’s blue-cloaks had gone.

  It was on the outskirts of Castlemont City that Dreg presented himself. Easily as cocksure as Mikahl, he sat upon his horse alone in the center of the road and waited for them to come to him. He wasn’t alone for long though. From out of the nooks and crannies of the city, the empty buildings and alleyways, Dreg’s sell-swords, and his fully-armored Dakaneese soldiers began to gather behind him. It didn’t take long for a force as large as Mikahl’s to gather. The only thing that surprised Mikahl was the lumbering breed giant, and the score of scaly green zard-men that came up behind them and were now blocking any chance they had to retreat.

  Once Mikahl and his men came to a stop, Dreg rode forward.

  High King Mikahl turned to his captains. “When it begins, charge the sell-swords,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Make a way for me. I’ll take the breed myself.”

  “Brave words for a dead man,” Dreg said as he reined up a few dozen yards ahead of Mikahl.

  Mikahl turned Thunder to face him. His eyes caught on something that was as out of place as a fish on a tree branch. His eyes narrowed and he looked to Dreg, then back to the sword hanging at his hip. There was no doubt that it was Lord Gregory’s sword. How it had gotten from the Skyler Clan village where they had left Lord Gregory to die last summer was a mystery.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy,” Dreg mocked. “Am I the first real man you’ve ever seen?”

  “Tell me where you got that sword and I won’t kill you when this battle’s over,” Mikahl said. His rage, at the moment, was barely containable. “It’s my only offer.”

  Dreg laughed. “A crippled fool searching for his wife left it for me, boy. Who said that you’ll live through this battle to kill me when it’s done?”

  “You misunderstood.” Mikahl rolled his shoulders. “I said that I wouldn’t kill you when the battle was over, you fargin slaver…”

  There was a sharp ringing hiss as Ironspike came free of its scabbard. The blade was radiating white with Mikahl’s rage. It was so bright that it threw shadows in the broad daylight. Its magical symphony filled Mikahl’s head, and the tingle of its power flooded through his veins.

  “…I’ll kill you before it gets started,” Mikahl finished. Before Dreg could even draw breath, a sizzling streak of yellow lightning blasted from Ironspike’s blade into his chest sending him whirling backwards off his horse, feet over head, over feet.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Mikahl reined Thunder around and yelled, “Charge!” Then he spurred his eager mount back through the narrow corridor his parting ranks of soldiers made for him. Over Ironspike’s symphony he heard the thrump and thrum of his archers loosing arrows into the Dakaneese. The thunder of hooves and boots pushing forward, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air. As soon as the archers loosed their second volley, he called for them to turn around and fire at the zard-men who were closing in behind. A few of the foot soldiers, and two of the cavalrymen who had been forced to the rear of the charge turned to aid Mikahl. Their courage was welcome in the fray, but the riders only served to keep some of the archers from having a clear line of fire at the closing enemy.

  Many of the fierce zard-men already had arrows sprouting from their fronts, leaving them looking like scaly porcupines. Thunder leapt into their midst and Mikahl swept Ironspike in a gleaming, blood-slinging arc through anything in his path. The breed giant stepped clear of the blade and brought around his tree-trunk club into Thunder’s unprotected side. Mikahl was thrown from the saddle as the horse leapt and churned in the air from the force of the blow. Mikahl landed awkwardly, but rolled quickly to his feet. The zard-man before him was as surprised as Mikahl was, but Mikahl put his blade into the zard’s neck before it could blink. As it hissed and gurgled away its life, Mikahl was relieved to see Thunder bucking and kicking at the zard nearest him. Mikahl barely dodged the huge club then. He found himself looking straight at the rock-solid chest of the half-breed beast. Had it been a full blooded giant, such as Borg, or King Aldar, he’d have been looking at a crotch instead of a chest, but this was a wild and savage thing that had never fully evolved. With a quick thrust he jabbed Ironspike’s white-hot blade deep into the breed giant’s thigh then dove away. The beast roared out in agony as its flesh sizzled and smoked where Ironspike had stabbed it.

  Mikahl hoped that, once he’d reduced Dreg to a smoking corpse, the sell-swords would have turned and run, but they hadn’t. It was probably because of the Dakaneese soldiers that would witness their desertion. King Ra’Gren was notoriously merciless to any who betrayed him.

  The knot of battle in the streets was fierce. Steel rang upon steel and the air was saturated with the spray of sticky blood and cries of agony. Some of the Highw
ander archers threw down their bows and resorted to their short swords and daggers. In most cases a clear shot with a bow was impossible now. Some of the better marksmen waited and loosed with expert precision, finding an enemy’s exposed neck or ribcage.

  An orb of orange swirling flame came down among the men from a balcony. Dreg’s wizard was joining the battle. Another orb exploded among the archers. The streaks of iron-tipped death they were loosing into the Dakaneese all but stopped. The survivors of the initial blast fought the scorching wizard’s fire that clung to their skin and armor like feathers to tar. The few that had escaped the magical blaze held their ground and continued to fight.

  The zard used short swords to some effect, but became most deadly when they were weaponless and fighting with only tooth and claw. They could drop to all fours and were quickly under the blows thrown by Mikahl’s men. Their powerful jaws were filled with sharp tiny teeth and they could use their tails to sweep men off balance and to divert otherwise lethal blows. Mikahl saw this, and while the breed giant limped awkwardly at him, he sent an array of sizzling crimson pulses into the zard from Ironspike’s magical blade. The breed giant’s club came down at him and he caught it with his sword in midair. Ironspike went right through the wood and Mikahl was brutally cracked in the side of his shoulder by the log that came free from its handle. His ear felt as if it had been ripped from his head, and he stumbled away from the battle clutching it, and cursing his lack of foresight. In a rage, he charged back at the breed giant, and as the monstrous savage committed to the swing of his shortened club, Mikahl spun into the blow and brought Ironspike around in an overhead chopping arc. It wasn’t the breed giant’s head he was aiming for, though, it was its forearm. The white-hot blade cleaved through flesh and bone so smoothly that its heat nearly cauterized the wound. The breed screamed in agony as its weapon, and part of its arm, went tumbling into the muddy street. The breed giant backed away then. Mikahl feigned a charging step after the creature and it broke into a run. Mikahl saw, not too far behind the fleeing beast, a large group of men on horseback all with bright blue cloaks billowing out behind them. He could only hope that General Spyra hadn’t let him down.