Kings, Queens, Heroes, & Fools

by M. R. Mathias

  Men were shouting at him from below as he started toward the young black wyrm, but he couldn’t understand them. Flick sent a streaking fiery blast at him, and Mikahl was forced to twist himself out of its way. He answered with a crackling lightning bolt. The dragon veered around it with only the slightest tweak of its wings.

  Mikahl thought he could see Flick laughing as the two of them came close to crashing in the sky. At the last moment both of them dove away. Mikahl managed to thrust Ironspike’s blade out into the dragon’s hide, but the wound was only superficial. Flick, however, cast an invisible wall into being in the air right in front of Mikahl. When the High King hit it, the sudden blunt impact caused Ironspike to twist from his grasp.

  When his sword left his hand, the bright horse disappeared, as did all of Mikahl’s magical defenses. He fought crazily while tumbling from the sky to grab the sword that was tumbling with him. With catlike agility he twisted and finally managed to wrap his hand at around Ironspike’s leather wrapped hilt. The sword filled his lungs with breath and he called forth the bright horse only a few dozen feet above the ground.

  As he righted himself into a hover, he found he was looking down the sights of a massive crossbow. He was so close that he could see the striations a sharpening stone had left on the barbed tip of its spear-sized bolt. Beyond that, a mud-covered breed giant seemed to light up with angry recognition at the same moment Mikahl did. The breed giant he had watched his father publicly disgrace before sealing them all away at Coldfrost sneered hatred as he fired the spear from his weapon. Mikahl had no chance at all to get out of its way.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  “Something bad must be happening,” said Cresso with absolutely no emotion whatsoever. He tried to convey the messages he sent and received in a smooth soft monotone so as not to confuse the emotion he was feeling with that of the sender. The effect made him seem to be cold and uncaring of the events taking place around him—at least Lord Gregory thought so. “Master Sholt is not responding,” Cresso explained.

  “Could he be...?” Dead? Lord Gregory didn’t want to say it out loud. He was so worried about the High King that he went to the mage to try and learn what was going on.

  “No,” Cresso answered matter of factly. The certainty in his expression relieved the Lion Lord. “My spell message is reaching him, he just isn’t responding.” Cresso wrapped a finger and thumb around his long narrow beard and slid his hand down slowly. “He is most likely preoccupied.” The last was said with a little concern showing in the mage’s voice. Lord Gregory noted the fact that it was the young man’s own thoughts, not a conveyance from another that he was voicing at the moment. It made him feel more comfortable.

  “If you would, Cresso, keep trying until he responds,” Lord Gregory said. “I will be at the map table or in the throne room.”

  In most instances, a trip from a wizard’s tower top chamber was a strenuous journey that involved traversing countless stairways and passages. In the palace at Dreen, it was only a matter of descending three flights of stairs and then following a short hall that led to the keep’s main entryway. For a man as greedy as King Broderick, Lord Gregory mused as he trotted down, there wasn’t much opulence about. Nothing in the palace was over luxurious.

  Lord Gregory’s thoughts were cut short by a hurried set of footsteps clanging up the stairs toward him. The frightened face of one of General Spyra’s men looked up at the Lion Lord. The man gulped and wiped the sweat from his brow. He was dressed in full armor and had to be sweltering in the summer heat. He started to speak twice, but heaved for breath both times.

  Finally he said, “To the balcony, m’lord.” He pointed up at the door to Cresso’s room. “You’d best see it, rather than hear me describe it.”

  Lord Gregory knew true fear when he saw it, and this man was afraid. He turned, racing up the steps and started to knock on the young wizard’s door. It opened before his knuckles ever touched wood. “Lord Gregory,” Cresso was almost bowled over when the Lion Lord rushed in.

  “M’lord,” Cresso urged Lord Gregory over to the western facing balcony.

  Once they were outside, the mage pointed southwest. The Red City, as it was called, was low built. No structure was over two stories tall save for the palace. Still, with the huge cattle pens and stable yards everywhere it was a large, widely spread metropolis. Less than a mile away a huge hairy head and shoulders rose above the rooftops. The massive beast was howling from its wolfish snout in what might have been rage, but just as easily could have been glee. The great club it carried was bashing in roofs and most likely crushing people and stock animals too.

  “It’s the beast that tore through Queen Willa’s ranks south of Oktin,” Cresso explained.

  “The General was... is readying to ride out to meet it,” the armored soldier huffed from the doorway. “He’s surely off by now.”

  “He must be stopped,” Lord Gregory said. Spyra was in no condition to rage off into battle with a monster. He was far too emotionally distraught. A glance back at the loud destructive beast made Lord Gregory think that the General might have lost his mind.

  “Cresso, can you get out there and warn the people to stay clear of it? Tell them to let it pass. I think that it will just move through.” He looked at the now fidgeting mage for reassurance, but found none.

  “I can’t get out there any faster than anyone else,” Cresso looked sharply at the armored guard. He didn’t want to go out there. He was terrified, but he took in a deep breath and gathered his confidence. “...but I suppose I can do it far more effectively.” He shouldered past the soldier and disappeared down the stairs.

  “You,” Lord Gregory said in a commanding tone. “By the order of the High King, the General is to be headed off before he manages to get himself, or his men killed. Use whatever means necessary outside of killing him. Order a troop of pike men to be ready if the thing turns toward the castle. And tell the stable man to ready my horse, just in case.”

  When the young man was gone, the Lion Lord watched the creature from the balcony as it worked its way north through the Red City at a steady pace. It was a great relief to see that it held its course. If it kept going as it was, he decided, it would eventually end up in the Giant Mountains. The terrifying looking thing was quite a bit bigger than Borg and his kin, but the giants numbered in the thousands and would surely put a stop to its intrusion into their kingdom. Lord Gregory decided that a warning was the least he could do for the gargantuan men who had so kindly guided Mikahl to his destiny. He made a long study of the creature’s passage to make sure that it was well past turning on the castle, then went to the desk in Cresso’s room, found a parchment and a quill, and began scribbling out a message to King Aldar, the ruler of the giant folk.

  ***

  The spear Bzorch launched from his dragon gun sliced painfully across Mikahl’s face, right through his cheek and ear. The roar that erupted just behind his head, though, told him that the breed giant had hit his intended target. Mikahl twisted around to see the huge Choska seemingly halted in midair by the shaft jutting out of its upper chest. Its sharp terrible claws were closed on the air where he had just been. He had to lean and twist to keep the bright horse from sliding into the ground just beyond the big breed giant. Then he had to duck under the swiftly uncoiling rope that another of them held. As if a great muddy boulder were coming to life, another huge breed giant rose up from the ground in front of him and aimed a similar weapon. Then Mikahl was past them.

  His whole left side was covered in blood. It was no small wound on his face, but as soon as he thought about it, the symphonic power of his sword sent cool, tingling magic through him into the cut. He brought the bright horse around and sent a crackling bolt of lightning at the gigged Choska. The impact of his blast folded the flying beast in half and sent it flailing backwards. The unsuspecting breed giant that was holding the rope was yanked from his feet and pulled across the rocky ground for twenty feet before he finally let go. Mikahl heard
Bzorch bellow out a laugh at the terrible folly.

  Mikahl turned back just in time to dodge a searing crimson blast of Flick’s magic. It missed him, but Mikahl didn’t get clear of Vrot’s corrosive breath. As he flew right through the misty edges of the blast, Mikahl felt his skin start to sizzle. He hadn’t had his shields up and already he was choking and gasping for breath. His skin burned and bubbled. The horrible death scream of one of the unlucky breed giants behind him filled his ears and then abruptly ended in a gurgling gasp. Mikahl couldn’t see, nor could he stop the acidy muck from eating into his flesh. Instinctually, he landed the bright horse then began streaming through the melodies of his sword’s powerful song. He was searching for anything that might help him. He looked at his affected left arm and saw that most of his skin was already dripping away like melting wax. In a few places he could see muscle, tendon, and bone. Finally, in a panicked daze, he did the only thing he could think to do. He fell to his knees and called forth all of Ironspike’s power at once.

  The tip of Pavreal’s sword shot skyward as if Mikahl had thrust it up. It was all Mikahl could do to hold on to the hilt with both hands as a deep thrumming rush exploded up from the earth, through his body, and out of the blade. A swirling pillar of smoke shot into the night. Some hundreds of feet above him the cloud flattened out and spread across the sky, turning dark and angry like a roiling storm. First one lightning strike split the distant darkness, then another. Then, as if the bottom of the heavens had burst, a cold soothing rain came pouring down over them all.

  ***

  Vrot had to flee out from under the clouds to avoid the wicked bolts of lightning that were streaking down all around him. Flick didn’t like it, but he let the dragon’s instincts carry them to safety. He’d managed to give the High King great pain, and fill him with fear. He doubted any amount of healing, magical, or otherwise, would be able to repair the damage Vrot’s breath had done. For now, that would have to satisfy his lust for vengeance. In his departing rage he decided to do something drastic, something that the High King and his pitiful followers would never expect. He urged Vrot westward toward Settsted Stronghold where droves of zardmen, long beaked dactyls, and big toothy gekas were doing little more than awaiting orders. There was no way the swampland creatures there could know of Shaella’s death yet. Flick had the dragon, and he knew they would follow whatever orders he gave them.

  He remembered that Pael’s failure was due to power-lust and greed, and that Shaella’s demise was brought about by love. Flick felt none of those emotions. Hate, anger, and the need for vengeance would guide him on his attempt to take over the realm. He didn’t think it would be that hard—nearly every able bodied soldier left on the continent was about to converge on O’Dakahn, and he had a dragon.

  ***

  By dawn of the next day, Lady Able had assembled a sizable force of castle staff. They, along with a few townsfolk who fled the riotous conditions of Castle View City, and the mayhem outside the walls, were slowly taking over the castle. Floor by floor, room by room, they moved about gathering weapons and chasing zard away as they went. Before long, all of the upper floors were rid of the scaly invaders. Armed groups of porters, stable men, and cooks ranged out and brought back supplies, just in case they had to bar the doors. With each excursion, the group gained a new member or two. Lady Able, a far different and more humble woman than the haughty noble she had once been, helped secure and fortify their area of the castle.

  Only once was the group challenged. A half dozen fully armored zard, looking to see proof of their queen’s death, stormed through the big double doors of a formal dining hall that allowed access to Shaella’s apartment. They were set upon by men and women alike, wielding weapons ranging from kitchen knives and ornamental spears, to serving trays and garden tools. It didn’t take long for the rest of the zard to figure out that they were unwelcome. For every zard that fled, two loyal Westlanders joined with the group. A few men with military training began organizing, with Lady Able’s permission of course, and soon a structured sense of control was established. By the second night, Lakeside Castle was completely retaken from the zard.

  Lady Able made certain that the Westland patriots knew they still had a son of Balton Collum for a king. She also made sure that they knew he had Ironspike on his side.

  She had no doubt that Mikahl would make a great king. Seeing the way those little girls melted his resistance revealed the true nature of his heart to her. She silently vowed that, when he returned to his castle, he would find some semblance of order here.

  ***

  The last of the red-robed priests, Solidar was his name, didn’t look like himself as he sat nervously beside the wagon driver who was carrying him and his cargo through the crowded shipping district of O’Dakahn. He‘d shaved his black beard so badly that his chubby pale face looked as if a cat had attacked him. His long hair was hacked short, and he wore a plain woolen tunic and rough spun britches instead of his silky red robes. The robes were in the crate that was riding in the bed of the wagon with him. Also in the crate was his most precious cargo: two, no, three items that his god would reward him for salvaging. He could only hope that the spells he’d cast over them would last throughout the sea journey from O’Dakahn to the Isle of Borina.

  Solidar was sure that he was being followed by one of Ra’Gren’s men, or maybe one of Flick’s. His eyes darted to and fro, and he often glanced behind him, not only at the road and the sea of people that closed in behind the passage of the cart, but at the cargo as well.

  The sharp crackling sound of magical static caused him to yank his head around. He was relieved to see that it was only a whip lashing into an unruly slave. He wrinkled his nose at the scene. Forty or fifty people, all chained one leg to the next, were being herded in a long line toward a grimy warehouse. Each time one of the slaves missed a step, or fell behind, the driver lashed the whip across them, leaving a dripping crimson streak. It was none of Solidar’s concern, he decided. The ship that would carry him and his cargo back to the isle, and theTemple of Kraw, was the only thing that worried him now. That and those bastards that were following.

  Reflexively he looked back over his shoulder again, first at the people, then at his precious crate. He mentally went through the series of preserving spells he’d cast on its contents. He wanted to be certain that he had been thorough. It wouldn’t do if Shaella’s body, or head, started to rot while he was at sea.

  The third item in the crate was Shaella’s staff. With the spectral orb mounted on its head, he would be able to reach his god directly. Kraw would tell him what to do, and he would prosper.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  After a night of heavy lightning and pouring rain, King Jarrek, General Diamondeen, and High King Mikahl, with the help of Master Oarly and Master Sholt, trudged through the gore and rounded up the survivors of the black dragon’s terrible acid bath. Some six hundred men and four hundred dwarves survived. Those too wounded to continue were carried back to the cavern where others tended their injuries under heavy guard.

  The four surviving breed giants kept their distance from the High King and his sword, but the fifth’s eyes never left Mikahl. Bzorch had saved the man’s life, but had nearly taken his face off to do it. He wasn’t sure if he had lost, or gained footing with the deed. He could see that only an angry red scar remained where his huge bolt had sliced the High King’s flesh, but that was only one of the terrible wounds that the seemingly indestructible young man had taken. The power of Pavreal’s blade was staggering. It regenerated new flesh over the High King’s open wounds, and the wounds of several others. It didn’t seem to have replaced some of the stuff that had been eaten away inside, but the corroded pocks closed over and ceased to bleed. To Bzorch, seeing this was miraculous. He had never seen magic used for good. For the first time, he saw King Balton’s infamous blade in a different light. He decided that he would try to speak to King Jarrek privately soon, so that he could find out where he stood. Until then, he a
nd his kind kept their distance.

  ***

  Mikahl informed King Jarrek of the Dakaneese soldiers he’d harried to the southeast of their position. Jarrek decided that his numbers had dwindled just a little too far to face them. He handpicked a hundred men and had the dwarven general do the same. He then ordered the rest of the men to retreat to Low Crossing through the dwarves’ tunnel. He told them to set traps as they went, and seal the passage for good once everyone was safely back in Wildermont. He and the men he had chosen were going to try and speed south along the river, avoiding the other force altogether. If they made it clear, his intention was for them to converge with the larger force of Willa’s Blacksword, and King Granitheart’s dwarves. From there they would methodically put O’Dakahn under siege.

  King Mikahl, still burning and itching from the deep destructive wounds he had taken, approved of the plan. Though Ironspike had somewhat healed his flesh, his left forearm and hand were ruined. He could barely grip a cup, and the length of limb from elbow to wrist looked more like a stick than anything human. Other than that, his shoulders had several deep pocks corroded into them, and they were itching terribly. He could scratch the ones on the left side, but reaching the ones on his right hurt his left arm so badly that he had to suffer the irritation.

  He was well enough to give Jarrek and the dwarves protection from the back of the bright horse, though. When he was sure that they were clear, he was going to carry Master Sholt to Lakeside Castle so that he could aid the Westlanders and establish communication with Lord Gregory.

  Just before they started south, Master Sholt informed them that Queen Rachel had organized a flotilla of Seaward ships. They were already en route to take up positions along the Dakaneese coast to prevent Ra’Gren from receiving supplies and fortifications that way. It would take some time to get them into position, but already five thousand more soldiers had left Ultura and were marching toward Lokahna.