The Sword and the Dragon wt-1

by Michael Robb Mathias

  “But what of Shokin?” Mikahl asked, with uncertainty and confusion showing plainly on his face. “How do we kill it, or trap it, or whatever?” He looked to Vaegon for help, but the elf only shrugged and nodded for Mikahl to pay attention.

  “In the ancient city of Xwarda, the capital of Highwander, there’s a place called Whitten Loch.” said King Aldar. “It’s just a lake, but there’s a little known temple there as well. You might seek the wisdom of the White Goddess there. She will be able to tell you more. It is said that there is a prophecy pertaining to the breaking of the Dragon’s Pact. If there really is a prophecy, then she would know it.”

  King Aldar’s expression showed that he wished he could help Mikahl further, but could not.

  “I would advise you to seek her out,” he finally said, knowing that it was the best advice he could give.

  “She said that the whole of prophecy has been fractured!” Hyden interrupted, with a voice full of concern. “The White Goddess said I was supposed to have the ring that my brother ran off with and -”

  His voice trailed off as Gerard’s destination came to his recollection. The place King Aldar had called the Black Tooth had to be Dragon Tooth Spire. Hyden was suddenly overcome by dread.

  “My brother went with a Dakaneese woman to the Dragon Spire to try and steal a dragon’s egg. She had to know that the pact you spoke of would soon be broken, because they left the day before the Highwander Blacksword soldiers started the blood flowing at the monolith.”

  Borg, who had been sitting in the near darkness at the edge of the firelight, spoke for the first time since they had eaten.

  “My spies tell me that a woman invaded Westland immediately after King Glendar rode his whole army across the Locar Bridge to attack Wildermont. They call her the Dragon Queen, because she rides on the back of a great red fire wyrm. Could this be the Dakaneese woman?”

  Hyden tried to answer Borg at the same time that Mikahl tried to ask a question, but the Giant King’s deep voice cut over both of them.

  “It’s clear then, that the White Goddess knows far more of this than I,” King Aldar huffed.

  He tapped the dying embers out of his pipe on the rock at his feet, and put it back into his pocket, and then looked Hyden.

  “If your little brother had any part in opening that Seal, then you will bring him before me for judgment when this is all done. Is that clear?”

  Hyden felt like he was about to vomit and the harsh look on King Aldar’s face filled him with fear for his brother.

  “I understand,” he said with a gulp, then quickly added “Your Majesty.”

  “I am honor bound to accompany Hyden Hawk,” Vaegon said respectfully. “Since we must travel east anyway, would it be possible for us to stop in the Evermore? I would like to share with my people this dire news, and ask for their advice on these matters. It would only take a day, at the most, and I think what the slight delay will cost us in time, will be made up tenfold in the end of things.”

  “It can be so,” the Giant King said, as he rose to his feet. “You must decide now, Mikahl.”

  Looking down, he gave both Hyden and Mikahl, stern and imposing looks.

  “Each moment it is loose, the demon grows stronger, and every time you’re forced to use that sword, the blade grows weaker. By my dragon-bone staff, you’ll leave with the speed of wolves on the morrow, if that is the path you choose. If you choose another way, then on the morrow we will bid you farewell.”

  With that said, he found a relatively smooth stretch of earth under the trees, and lay down, leaving the companions alone in the fire’s light.

  In the shadows, Borg rose, and took his leave as well. It was a long while before any of them dared to speak.

  Hyden couldn’t stop worrying about Gerard. What had his little brother gotten himself into? The old soothsayer had said that he would find the power to lead legions in the depths of the Dragon Spire, but those depths were where all the demons and devils had been banished to. And the ring! How would he ever get it back from Gerard? The White Goddess said that it must be done. What if Gerard wouldn’t willingly give it to him?

  It was too much to think about all at once. He knew he would do what must be done, but he chose not to think about how terrifying it might be, or how hard it would be to actually do it.

  Oh Gerard, what have you done little brother? He asked the question in his head, over and over. He wondered if Shaella, the beautiful Dakaneese fighter that had recruited Gerard, was the dragon rider Borg had spoken of. He wondered if Gerard was alive, and at her side, or if he had chased his foolish dreams into the darkness of the Nethers.

  He glanced at Mikahl across the fire. Had his own brother helped take Mikahl’s kingdom? He shook his head, hoping to clear some of the questions away. He knew what he had to do for now. The White Goddess had told him to follow his heart, so that’s what he was going to do. The choice was Mikahl’s to make.

  “I’ll see it through with you, Mik,” he said softly. “To whatever end we come to.”

  “And I as well,” Vaegon added.

  “Then it’s decided.” Mikahl’s voice was firm. He had already sworn to avenge Loudin’s and Lord Gregory’s deaths, as well as King Balton’s. King Balton’s death, he figured, was on Glendar’s hands, but the others had been killed by demon kind. Still, he was certain that all three deaths were rooted in the same sort of evil. He hoped that the White Goddess would help them. He also hoped that the people of Westland were all right. It troubled him deeply, to think that King Balton’s good and loyal subjects were under the command of some dragon riding wench.

  They didn’t post a watch that night, because they knew the Great Wolves were guarding them, but long after everyone was asleep, Vaegon was still awake and busy. First, with writing the day’s passage into his journal, then later, mending and remaking what he had retrieved for Mikahl earlier that day in the forest.

  The next morning, Mikahl was up before dawn, going through his rigorous array of exercises with Ironspike. The pack of wolves found this curious, and had formed a ring around him. They watched the display of will and dexterity from their haunches intently. King Aldar sat up and watched as well. When Mikahl was finished, the King approached him, and spoke quietly.

  “You’re going to replenish the sword then?” he asked the question, even though Mikahl had made the answer plainly clear with the intensity of his workout.

  “Aye, King Aldar,” Mikahl spoke, as if speaking to an equal. “Is it not the only choice to make? Ironspike will do me little good without its power. What’s a plain old sword against a demon or a dragon? I’ll need all the help I can get.”

  “That you will.” The Giant King gave Mikahl a fatherly pat on the back, his huge hand touching both shoulder-blades at the same time.

  “I have something for you. It was going to be a gift for your father, a token of gratitude for walling back those half-breeds at Coldfrost.”

  He produced a thick gold chain. On it, hung a medallion made of the same yellowed bone as his wolf’s head staff.

  “This is dragon bone. It has some power of protection to it, a charm so to speak,” he said, as he leaned down and placed it over Mikahl’s head.

  Mikahl took the piece of dragon bone in his hand, and examined it more closely. It was the size of his palm, and carved in the shape of a lion’s head. Its mane was worked with golden inlays, and the eyes were two sparkling emeralds. It was beautiful. Mikahl tucked it away into his shirt, and bowed in thanks to the towering giant. Already, he was trying to think of a way to protect the piece from the chain mail shirt he favored. It wouldn’t do to scratch and scar such a wonderful gift while in battle.

  When Vaegon woke, Mikahl received another gift. The elf had gone out into the forest and found where the hellcat had dropped Ironspike’s original sheath. The belt was ruined, and the scabbard itself damaged, but Vaegon had taken part of Duke Fairchild’s sword belt and sheath, and made a shoulder rig for Mikahl to use. It fit awkwardly, p
lacing Ironspike’s blade across his back diagonally, so that its hilt jutted up just over his right shoulder, but it worked. The whole of the blade fit perfectly into the familiar, hardened leather scabbard, and what’s more, the sword’s magic went dormant when it was seated, as it was supposed to do. Thus, the sword wasn’t slowly losing what little power it had left when it wasn’t being used.

  Mikahl drew the blade several times, and figured that he would grow to like the accessibility that the shoulder rig gave him. With deep gratitude, he thanked Vaegon for the kind gesture.

  They learned that they would be riding on the wolves’ backs, across the thousand miles that separated them from the eastern mountain range. It excited, but pained Mikahl, because he would have to say goodbye to Windfoot.

  Borg promised to take the horses back to the Skyler Clan village, where he would personally enlarge the entry of one of the herd caverns, so that the horses could survive the bitter winter if they needed to. Still, it was a long and slightly tearful goodbye for Mikahl, one that brought tears to Princess Greta’s eyes, and Hyden’s as well. It was as if Mikahl was saying goodbye to everything he had ever known.

  Neither Hyden, nor Vaegon, had ever ridden a horse, much less a Great Wolf. Straddling one of the huge husky creatures on their bare backs was strange to Mikahl as well. A fourth wolf was rigged up to carry the saddle bags and blankets. They ate what remained of the doe the wolves had killed the evening before. Then, King Aldar introduced each of the animals to the companions by name. After a brief exchange of goodbyes, including a girlish kiss on Talon’s beak from the princess, they were off.

  They covered over a hundred miles that first day. It was amazing how swift and sure the Great Wolves ran, even with the weight of grown men on their backs. By the end of the third day, they came out of the foothills of the Giant Mountains, right into the legendary and mystical Evermore Forest. The thick, lush canopy came as a welcome relief, for it had started to rain that last day in the mountains. By the looks of the dark, cloudy sky, it wouldn’t stop for some time.

  Even with the sad state of affairs, and the dreary weather, Vaegon found that he was excited. He was on familiar ground now. Even the myriad dangers the Evermore Forest harbored, seemed to welcome him. Home, the elf decided, was like that.

  Chapter 40

  Pael felt the sudden and terrible agony that the hellcat felt when Mikahl crippled it. If it had not been for the great power of Shokin flowing inside him, the debilitating surge might have done him permanent harm. That particular hellcat was still bound deeply to the wizard. It had been formed from Inkling’s substance, and the imp’s familiar link to Pael was apparently still potent.

  Pael had never been one for trivial affections, but the imp had been his familiar since he was a young man. Long before Shaella had been born, before his toy prince had come along, and long before he had stolen the Spectral Orb from the Palladian wizard Ah-Rhal, Inkling had been there. The imp had helped Pael kill his mentor, Allagar, after the old Master Mage tried to punish him for stealing the Staff of Malice from the not-so-distant continent of Murga. Pael couldn’t fathom missing a lover or a friend, but he missed his devilish little companion greatly.

  It was old Allagar who had inspired the imp’s name, Pael remembered, with a sinister chuckle. When Allagar would catch Pael dabbling in the darker things, he would snatch away the books or devices, and say: “You haven’t got an inkling boy! Do you know what damage you might cause with that?” or something like: “You haven’t an inkling of what the effects of that spell might be!” Pael hadn’t liked that. So what did he do? He went and summoned for himself, an “Inkling.” He and the imp ended up sacrificing old Allagar to the Abbadon, in exchange for the location of the Spectral Orb. It was one of the fondest memories, and greatest triumphs, of Pael’s younger life.

  Pael wasn’t sentimental, but Inkling deserved better than to spend his life trapped in the form of the horribly crippled hellcat. After he recovered from the brunt of the sensation that Mikahl had caused him, he reached deeply into Shokin’s knowledge, and found a way to spare the imp that fate. Like all powerful spells of transforming, this one required a sacrifice – in this case, a living body to house Inkling’s soul and essence, after it was removed from the hellcat. Inkling would lose most of his powers in the process, but Pael figured that it was a small price to pay to keep his life. After all, Inkling had failed to bring Ironspike back to him.

  It took Pael a while to decide whose body Inkling could best serve him in. When he finally made his choice, it came as a revelation of pure, ironic joy. Pael would make Inkling a king – King Glendar to be precise. Glendar had served his purpose by leading Westland’s army out of Westland. He was nothing but a figurehead now, an obnoxious, spoiled-rotten figurehead. Pael had Shokin’s power now. He didn’t have to hide behind a king. With much excitement and manic glee, the wizard went about making his preparations to return to Wildermont. He would enjoy very much putting King Balton’s horrible sniveling son in his proper place.

  On Claret’s broad back, between two large triangular spinal-plates, Shaella rode comfortably through the cool, thin air of the higher altitudes. Far below her, King Glendar and his wagon trains were just leaving Wildermont’s southernmost city, and were heading steadily towards the Dakaneese border. She had waited patiently for this moment, and would now fly directly to Coldfrost to hear the answer the breed giants would give to her proposal. Of course they would agree. She had no doubt. They had no other option.

  The days that had passed since she had made the offer, would have stirred their spirits. They would be greedy for freedom by now, she figured. Their mouths would be salivating for the feasts of vengeance she would allow them to reap across the northern half of her kingdom.

  After years of imprisonment on that river formed island, bound behind the invisible magical walls King Balton had erected around them, they could not possibly refuse to take the deal. After all, to be allowed to ravage the lands and the families of the very men who had hunted them, the men who drove them onto the miserable island, and trapped them there, was just about the sweetest gift they could be given. To be considered free-folk, and to be able to claim that same land for their own, was simply icing on the cake.

  Shaella was glad to have loosed them. A few, bloodthirsty bands of giant half breeds terrorizing the streets of Crossington and Portsmouth would go far in bringing the rebels and resisters under control, but that wasn’t her priority. Having the breed destroy the great bridge over to Wildermont, so that she could seriously begin to fortify her holdings, was.

  There were more personal reasons for her wanting the final part of her Westlands takeover to be done with. She had found her father’s tower at Lakeside Castle. She hadn’t managed to figure out the lift yet, but she had accessed his vast library by going through the gaping hole in the upper chamber from Claret’s neck. From there, she climbed down through the trapdoor to the library.

  She had already been there several times. She studied some of the writings on the power and qualities of the Seal that Pael had left out on the table there. It was the books that spoke about the Spectral Orb and her father’s own notes on that subject, that were driving her savage curiosity though. Something Claret had shared with her about the fate of Gerard back in the dragon’s lair, had sparked a fire in her. Once the final phases of the Westland conquest were complete, she would have the time to focus on what she now truly hoped she could achieve. It was that furious drive that motivated her actions even now, as Claret carried her down in a slow, descending circle towards the river-formed island called Coldfrost.

  It was too cold this far north for her Zardmen, or any other of the marsh creatures to survive. She had leveled Northwatch, Westland’s northernmost stronghold, with Claret’s might. It was an example for the people who lived up here. From a wealthy fur merchant’s keep nearby, Flick held reign for the time being. Lord Brach had left behind only women, children, and just enough able men to hunt and care for them. All
were terrified of what the dragon had done, but a few of the men that had been left at Northwatch had escaped the destruction, and had managed to get into the Reyhall Forest. A veteran Captain, named Bittercosp, was leading them, and had futile hopes of starting a rebellion. She already knew about them, and if Flick hadn’t tortured the location of their hiding place out of the common folk yet, then the feral Breed giants would soon root them out.

  Those simple folk, who had dared to come out of their homes into the white-washed snowy world on this beautiful day, soon scattered like cockroaches from a lantern’s light. Claret announced Shaella’s arrival with a blood-curdling roar that left no room to question what creature it had come from. A few low passes over the nearby villages helped the stragglers find their way home. Soon, only the heavily bundled figure of Flick was braving the outdoors to witness the huge dragon’s landing.

  As brutal as any winter blizzard, Claret’s great wings started up an icy, blasting gust as she swooped down out of the sky into a scampering run. The run died into a lunging sinuous walk as she folded her wings back to her sides. She finally stopped and lowered her head. Shaella slid deftly off of her back, down to the snow before Flick.

  “Mastress,” Flick said with an intentional zardish hiss, and a flourishing bow.

  “Oh please Flick, where’s the fire?” she asked, with a half angry shiver. “Or should I have Claret torch this little keep to keep me warm?”

  He laughed cautiously, and led her into the place.

  Inside, a central stone and mortar walled room was built around a large pit that was raging with flame. Shaella laid the Staff of Malice to the side and went straight to the blaze. She was glad for its heat. The spell she had been using to keep herself warm, while on Claret’s back was a simple one, but maintaining it hour after hour, while riding, was taxing, to say the least. Claret was warm, but Coldfrost was bitter. She decided she would eat and recuperate in the glow of the fire. Later, after she was rested, and the moon was high in the sky, she would turn loose the Breed giants on the sleeping, unsuspecting people of Northern Westland.