The Wizard and the Warlord (The Wardstone Trilogy Book Three)

by M. R. Mathias

  Mikahl gave a savage war cry that rivaled the call of the Dark One. His sword blazed white hot and sent a streaking beam of destructive energy into the Warlord’s plated chest. Gerard screamed out in pain and went tumbling over backward. Only a last-second leap gave him enough altitude to throw out his wings and catch air. Mikahl urged the bright horse onward and made to attack again, but a violent fist of crimson energy slammed him sideways, so that the magical mount carried him crashing into the corner of a newly built wall.

  A hellcat and a Choska demon rained blast after magical blast down and around where he’d crashed. Then the entire wall structure collapsed over him. The last thing Mikahl heard before blackness swept through his mind was the Warlord’s horrible laughter and the pleading cries of the little girl in the black robe.

  ***

  After eating the girl’s squirming body, the Warlord ordered his horde east. As much as he would have loved to stay and terrorize Westland more, he had an agenda. Xwarda, and the Wardstone bedrock upon which the palace was built, was waiting for him. By taking control of its power in his own form he could do more than rip open the boundaries. He could create an impenetrable protective shield, behind which he and his hordes could gather, plan, and rest behind between attacks. He could use the powerful Wardstone to blight crops and burn the forests. He could poison the lakes and streams and summon all the beasts of the earthly plane into his service. From Xwarda he could slowly, painfully bleed the hope and life from the world of men. On powerful wing beats he and those who could fly moved swiftly eastward. The wingless, the walkers and lopers, the slithery, scaly things, of his horde followed on the ground.

  In the back of the Hell Master’s head a voice was screaming out a warning, but the Warlord paid it no heed. The voice was that of a demon called Shokin, who had been ripped apart long ago by Pael. Shokin was part of the evil against which Ironspike was created to defend, and he knew its powers. When the High King went down, even now, while he was buried under that pile of rubble, Shokin screamed for the Warlord to take the time to utterly destroy him. Once that was done, the blade would be dead, too.

  The Warlord ignored Shokin’s advice. So loud and intense in his head were the calls and murmurs of all the demons the Hell Master had consumed, the rambling of a single voice was lost in the jumble. The surge of hatred and malice toward the world they had all been banished from, and the desire to feed upon its terror, made it hard enough for the thing Gerard had become to keep its focus on Xwarda. So intense was the desire to wreak havoc that the Warlord himself couldn’t resist the urge to bathe in the blood of men.

  The city of Castlemont’s lantern lights became visible in the cold, dark night, and the Warlord chose that place to land first. Dozens of breaches had opened up across the land, and his army needed a place to gather. What better place, the Warlord decided, than a city full of struggling people trying to salvage a life after war? If crushing hopes and dreams would fortify his legions, then in Castlemont they would feast like gods.

  ***

  In the city of O’Dakahn chaos reigned. Demons tore through the streets and neighborhoods with wild abandon, killing and destroying anything they could. Along the river and the marshland villages of the south, those witches and dabblers who served the Dark Lord were finding the bloody rewards of their loyalty. From their sacrificial circles, from the rune-marked altars, and from other places where certain magical symbols were etched, breaches between the Nethers and the world had opened. Across the entire realm, etchings on medallions or small statues were spilling forth demon kind. Buzzing black hornets and long, venomous things slithered out of the darkness, while imps and devil dogs shimmied out of the places they could fit through. In the marshlands, the circle where the red priest of Kraw had preformed the ceremony that let the Warlord into Shaella’s resurrected body was a gaping gateway. All sorts of dark things were escaping their banishment.

  Legions of them.

  On the Isle of Borina, where the same priest had resurrected Shaella’s body in the first place, there was a larger hole. In the Giant Mountains, more than a dozen teleportals had opened for the Dark Lord, and in the sacred heart of the Evermore forest, already the earth was soaked blue with blood. In King Jarrek’s lands, though, the nightmare was only beginning, because all of the denizens of hell that had come to the land of mortals were now moving toward Castlemont to answer the Warlord’s summons.

  ***

  King Mikahl opened his eyes to see the shield he’d called forth. It was holding several chunks of rubble up off of his body. Ironspike was still in his grasp, he realized. Had he let go during his brief stint of unconsciousness, he would have been crushed. He blinked away tears from his eyes. He loved Rosa dearly, and with all of his heart. To lose her and his unborn child was deeply painful, but he was the High King and couldn’t let his own emotion come between him and his duty.

  A deep, loving voice echoed in his head from the past. “Think, then act,” it said, and Mikahl did just that. He had to get to Xwarda to defend the Wardstone from the thing Hyden’s brother had become. That he knew for certain. If he didn’t, if he took even another moment to mourn Rosa and the baby, then maybe a dozen more mothers could die. Hyden would be waiting in Xwarda and, according to his missives, the would-be wizard had some sort of plan. Mikahl wiped away one last tear and then let his anguish fuel the symphony of Pavreal’s blade. In an explosion of brick, fractured stone and dust, he emerged from the mound.

  The bright horse whinnied and pranced, eager to be of service. All around Mikahl in the torchlit garden yard, men yelled and dove for the ground as more terrible things crawled from the hole and took to the sky.

  Along the walls the alert soldiers cheered when they saw their king come flying out of a cloud of dust and debris.

  Mikahl took the bright horse up into the frigid sky so high that all he could see below were the tops of the clouds. He hated to abandon Westland, but there was no choice in the matter. He set into a streaking course due east and hoped with all he had that he could get to Queen Willa’s palace to meet Hyden Hawk before the Warlord got there first.

  Chapter 52

  For a long night the elves battled the demon horde in the Evermore. The arrogant Hardwood Coalition set their wizards on the attack, but found out quickly that most normal spells were useless against the hellborn. Blades and arrows weren’t much better, but even the greater of the devils were bound to a body of flesh while in the world of man. They fell and writhed and died just like the elves they were so mercilessly slaughtering.

  The elven defensive forces had been split, and while one force, the Hardwoods and their sentinels, raged in to meet the demons like madmen, the other force, led unofficially by Dieter Willowbrow and a few of the Queen Mother’s soldiers, was helping to protect the rest of the elves as they fled.

  The crafters and healers, the mothers and children, and the outlying gatherers were grouped together and herded toward the only place Dieter thought might be safe. In the south there were dense tangles of forest. It was no easy task keeping so many elves safe and together while fighting off the attacking hellspawn as they went.

  A group of eight young elves, both boy and girl, and their ancient herbology teacher, were trapped in a dense thicket between an acid-mouthed wyvern and a pack of devil dogs. Three of Dieter’s scouts came upon them and were doing what they could to keep the demon kin at bay with their bows. Now they were growing short of arrows. They sent one of their number to get reinforcements, but as one of the devil dogs charged in and latched its teeth on the old instructor, the situation demanded action. Charging like the barbarian berserkers of old, one of the elven archers raced into the group of youngsters, screaming and yelling and waving his arms around madly. His brazen approach startled the devil dogs back.

  One of the other elves charged and used the ground the dogs had given to snatch up a few of the errant arrows from the trees and undergrowth. It was then that the wyvern struck.

  A boy of perhaps twent
y-five years bravely shoved two of the female students out of harm’s way and took the attack of the man-sized wyvern himself. Corrosive saliva and blue elven blood sprayed the group like a shower of warm rain. The wyvern’s teeth were clamped on the boy’s neck, and it shook its head furiously. The violent motion tore a chunk from the young elf’s body and the wyvern chugged it down.

  A few of the children began swatting away at their stinging flesh where the monster’s saliva had touched their skin. A cloud of steam rose up from the warm blood pulsing out of the body in the snow.

  The thrum of a soldier’s bow and the thump of his arrow impacting into the wyvern’s scaly hide was lost in the shouts and cries of the terrified group.

  The wyvern flapped awkwardly into the trees and crashed, going into a sputtering death rage. Large clumps of snow and ice fell down on top of the beast, shaken loose from the branches above.

  The devil dogs had the group surrounded in a rough circle. The sudden cry of the old herbologist caught everyone’s attention. A pair of the red-eyed, toothy beasts had gotten hold of her again and this time they quickly dragged her away from the others.

  One of the soldiers charged out of the huddle to help her, but even as the other black wolf-like beast finished tearing her apart, she commanded him back. “Save the children!” she shrieked. “Do what you must to save the…” her voice trailed away as her throat was ripped out. The elven students whimpered and moaned in horror as their beloved teacher was devoured like a fallen deer before their eyes.

  With the devil dogs busy, the archers cautiously urged the young elves toward the bulk of their retreating kin. They were met in a small clearing by Dieter and a handful of sentinels who were coming to their aid. As the children were calmed and ushered away, a winged panther-like beast the size of a horse came crashing down upon them. Luckily, the youngsters had gotten out of the clearing and into the trees. The forest was too dense for the creature to give chase, but since it had just crushed one elf, and lashed another senseless with its spiked tail, it had plenty to occupy its attention.

  The beast’s snarling maw opened only a foot from Dieter’s face. A brimstone-tainted roar blasted at his long, golden hair and filled his eyes with blurring tears. The elf with whom he had been conferring was now lying in a steaming heap of entrails at his feet. Another elf stumbled aimlessly toward the unprotected middle of the clearing, his head a bloody mess.

  From Dieter’s left an arrow loosed at the beast. From his right, one of the Queen Mother’s elves plunged his black-blood-stained sword deep into the creature’s guts. When the soldier’s sword hit its vitals, the demon twisted toward the attacker and snapped out at him. Dieter had no sword, but as calmly as if he were about to peel an apple, he pulled out his dagger and laid open the beast’s throat. A spew of hot crimson gore covered him, and an unseen hand yanked him clear of the demon’s death throes.

  As surely as he had killed the monster before him, a certain dread filled Dieter’s heart. The Heart of Arbor had helped spare him, just as it had in the clearing before. He knew why he had been spared. He was the only elf who had a chance of getting them into Xwarda. The humans would surely leave them to their own fate, just as the elves had done to humans not so long ago. But Vaegon had fought to the death with the men of Xwarda. If he told them who he was, they would listen. Even though it went against the new Queen Mother’s order to stand and fight, Dieter decided what he was going to do. If she didn’t understand, then so be it.

  Once he was back among the main group of elves, Dieter leapt gracefully to a low-hanging branch and whistled for silence. The eyes that fell on him grew wide. He was covered in blood and looked half-demon himself.

  “We must flee the forest!” he yelled. “It will be here for our return, but if we stay, we will surely be destroyed by this unearthly force. If you wish to live to see your homes again, then follow me. If you wish to stay and die, then at least do so to stall their pursuit of us. Grant the children and the untrained a chance. We have a long way to run, but we are fleet and we know the forest.” He paused, feeling the Heart of Arbor pounding in his chest. “Come, children of the Evermore, our future lies even farther south.”

  Most gathered there could feel the Arbor Heart speaking through Dieter and didn’t question the young elf, but some of the older males, who’d long forgotten the dreams of youth, lagged behind. Whether by the will of the forest, or by the stubbornness of their ways, they gave their lives for those who followed Dieter.

  Through that night and all throughout the next day the elves continued their run toward Xwarda. The first night the demons harried them, but then as if some magical force began to protect them, the pursuit seemed to break off.

  When the group reached Xwarda, hungry and exhausted after two nights and two days of continuous retreat, they found the gate to the city open, but the alert troop of soldiers guarding the portal was unwilling to let them inside.

  Most of the elves had never seen a human city, and Xwarda was one of the grandest to look upon. Reaching towers and hundreds of arched windows could be seen over the city’s outer wall. The roofs were beaten copper, or brightly colored tiles. Banners showing Queen Willa’s black sword on white and the High King’s golden lion fluttered proudly from a hundred poles. It was as strange as it was awe-inspiring to a people who made their lives living amongst the trees.

  Dieter had sweated most of the blood and gore from himself. He looked more than battle-worn when he demanded to speak with Queen Willa. The elves, tattered and dejected, watched as human folk from outlying towns were let inside for protection. The guards gave Dieter a cold shoulder and a small force was marched out to ensure that the elves stayed where they were.

  It was clear that the people of Xwarda had been warned. From his position huddled on the roadside, he could see no threat yet. Dieter couldn’t tell if Xwarda had been attacked or not. It didn’t look like it had, but they were ready for it. On the towering white stone walls at well-spaced intervals, half-giants were loading huge, pivoting crossbows. Barrels of what Dieter assumed to be oil or pitch were being rolled into positions near dark-stained murder holes. The hundreds of archers lining the wall top could be seen between the square teeth-like crenelations. It was also obvious to Dieter that part of the wall here had been rebuilt recently. A lot of the stone was unweathered, and the mortar was rough and unrubbed. Dieter knew that his brother had died on these very walls, and it irked him that the men wouldn’t listen to his pleas.

  A passage from his brother’s journal came to him. It pertained to Queen Willa’s strange choice of advisors. There was a pixie named Starkle, if he remembered correctly.

  Dieter smiled. He knew how to get to the queen then. He found an older elven woman who was wise in the ways of the Evermore’s little folk. The fae folk lived among the elves sometimes in the spring, and there were ways to call upon them.

  “A pixie? Here?” the old elven crone nodded her disbelief. “Are you sure?”

  “I am,” Dieter answered. “Can you summon a pixie, Lady Poplar? It’s most important that you try, if you can.”

  “I can try, Master Willowbrow,” she said with a look of doubt. “I’ve managed to summon a sparrow rider and some glitter wings in my day, but have never called a pixie yet.”

  Dieter gave the old woman room, but was distracted from her murmuring incantations when a ranking officer broke formation by the gate and started toward them with a strange, almost frighteningly pale look about him. The look only grew more intense the closer the man got, but a sigh and a fast flutter of eyelids when he was upon Dieter seemed to break the trance. “You look so much like Vaegon that there has to be a relation.”

  “There is.” Dieter looked at the bar on the man’s collar and the colorful medals pinned to his breast but didn’t know what level of service they indicated. Dieter smiled. “Vaegon was my brother. We, my people, have been decimated. Our forest homes were overrun by demon kind.”

  “Demon kind?” the soldier asked. “By the
gods, is that what’s coming?”

  “I don’t know, sir, but most of my people were killed.” He indicated the haggard women and children who had run for days without food and water to get there. “We’ve been afoot for days and have nowhere to go.”

  “I see bows and swords among your people. Can those able lend their strength to our defense?”

  “Of course,” Dieter answered, feeling the first bit of hope he had felt in days.

  “I cannot make that decision myself,” the lieutenant said. “But I'm sure my captain would welcome any who followed Vaegon’s kin to our side.”

  “If I can die half as bravely as Vaegon lived,” Dieter said with a proud bow, “then I have done much.”

  They exchanged names and Lieutenant Torkav gave the order for some barrels of fresh water and hard biscuits to be carried out for the elves while he located his superiors.

  While they waited, a tiny, blue-skinned pixie came fluttering out of nowhere, complaining about the cold in a voice far too deep for his hand-sized body. Before a dialogue could be established, a collective gasp of awe erupted from men and elves alike. For now, swooping down out of the sky, looking as haggard and worn as the elves felt, was the High King on his magical winged steed.

  Normally Mikahl would have landed by the huge fountain in front of the palace, or even flown into the structure through one of the large rectangular holes left when Pael destroyed the glorious stained-glass depictions that once filled them. The presence of the elves, though, and the collective sorrow and concern his sword picked up from the group, brought him down between them and the soldiers. He nearly cursed when he saw Dieter. So much did the elf resemble Vaegon, and so weary and travel-drained was Mikahl, that he almost believed he was seeing a ghost.