The Sword and the Dragon wt-1

by Michael Robb Mathias

  Flick watched her from afar. He had liked and respected Gerard, but he found that Gerard had made him jealous. What Flick felt for Shaella, he wasn’t sure. Something between awed respect and total adoration, but not quite romantic love. Or was it? If it was, it was foolish.

  She still felt so deeply for Gerard, that it showed plainly in her every move and expression. He was sure she thought nothing of the sort towards him. Maybe, in time he could win her. No! It was improper. She was his Queen and he was her sworn servant; but that didn’t mean he couldn’t hope and dream of a day when he might feel her desire.

  It was with those thoughts swirling through his mind that he covered her sleeping body with a thick blanket, and went about making a meal that would fortify her for what she had come here to do.

  “How many men did you leave guarding the bridge?” Pael asked Glendar in a sharp hiss, as he suddenly appeared beside him.

  Watching the shock and fear of his unexpected appearance explode across everyone’s face thrilled Pael to the bone.

  His suddenness startled them all, especially Roark, who spun quickly, while drawing his sword, only to find himself held solid by some magical force halfway through the motion. The weight of his armor and his off kilter balance in his now paralyzed state, left him about to fall from his horse. Mercifully, Pael released him so that he wouldn’t tumble like a statue into the road and be trampled.

  King Glendar, surrounded by his personal guards, was leading some four hundred of his men southward into Dakahn. Four horse-drawn wagons, full of gold, jewels and other valuables rolled amongst them. A few other wagons full of kegs, crates, and stacks of weapons, armor, and other various looted items straggled not far behind the procession. A dozen more wagons full of jewels, and gold bars, along with the finest of the forged things had been sent across the bridge into the Westland City of Locar. Eventually, Glendar wanted them hauled to Lakeside Castle and added to the kingdom vaults. King Glendar, it seemed, still had no idea that Westland wasn’t his kingdom anymore. Shaella’s Zardmen had apparently done a thorough job of intercepting and forging responses to the communications he had sent since he had marched out of Castlemont.

  “A hundred men to guard the bridge in rotation,” Glendar answered Pael proudly. “There are fifty each in Locar and Castlemont, and a handful more to guard Westland’s piece of the pie.”

  Pael chuckled at the young King’s total lack of awareness, and gave the boy a nod of respect, as he silently complimented Shaella on the patience, and diligent care she had used to keep her conquest from being discovered by the fool. She didn’t know it yet, but King Glendar had just made her kingdom that much richer by delivering all those wagon loads of loot to Locar. Pael wondered when she would loose the Wedjakin breed beasts from Coldfrost. It never ceased to amaze him how his past failures sometimes could be used to his advantage later on.

  “It’s late in the afternoon, my King,” Pael said. “Why not let these men rest? Open a few kegs, have the cooks make a rich stew. These men fought hard and deserve a victory celebration. And I would like to speak with you in a more comfortable, and private environment.”

  “Master Wizard Pael,” Glendar leaned down from his saddle so that no one but Pael might hear him. “I believe that is the wisest idea I’ve heard in days.”

  Pael didn’t doubt it.

  Rising up in his saddle, Glendar projected his next words, to make sure that they were heard by many. He also made it sound like the whole thing was his idea.

  “Roark, break the men. Tonight we feast, and toast our victory over those Redwolf curs.”

  A small cheer rose up from the ranks nearby, and spread as the order was repeated shoulder over shoulder, to those in the rear. By the time Roark rode down the line to make the command official, the troops were already breaking formation.

  Pael instructed Glendar to have his new, far larger pavilion erected away from the bulk of the soldiers. He then pulled Roark to the side and told him that he would be on full duty this night, guarding the King’s tent soberly and diligently.

  The rest of Glendar’s personal guards were dismissed to celebrate with the others. Once he began his work, Pael wanted no interruptions, and when he was finished with the King, he had something he wanted to try on the big horn-helmeted soldier.

  The celebration was taking place in a field just off the open road south of Low Crossing, but still shy of the Dakaneese border. The feast went as well as any roadside celebration might be expected to. Every man was allowed double rations, and the cook added far more meat than usual to the pots. Enough of the kegs were opened, so that each man would be able to get good and inebriated.

  King Glendar made a victory speech from atop a pyramid of barrels. When it was done, toast after toast was offered between congratulatory cheers and prideful boasts. Not long after, the mild sleeping spell Pael had placed on the food began to work. Glendar passed into such a comatose state, that Pael had to enlist Roark’s help getting him into the tent. Once that was accomplished, Pael casually stopped Roark’s heart with a hot, sizzling lightning bolt from his finger. The huge warrior crumpled into a smoldering heap.

  Pael began casting the spell that would summon the wounded hellcat that was once his familiar, Inkling, directly to the pavilion tent.

  It took more than half the night to complete the process, but when it was done, Glendar Collum was no longer the one in charge of his body. He was still there, and had somewhat of a voice in the thought process, but for the most part, Inkling had taken over, and was wickedly grateful to Pael for freeing him from the crippled and pain-wracked body of the hellcat.

  Pael then turned his attention to Roark. In his search through the depths of Shokin’s knowledge, he stumbled upon a necromantic spell the Priests of Kraw had supposedly used to bring the dead into service. As he finished casting it on Roark, the crumpled soldier stirred, and then slowly rose before him. The big warrior made a daunting sight, with his huge horned helm, and eyes that glowed red, like the embers of a campfire when a breeze strikes them. The once brilliant shine of his armor had been dulled to a flat gray by the electrical power of the bolt that had stopped his heart. Pael wasted no time before casting a binding spell to make its will his own.

  Pael was so pleased with himself, that he decided to experiment more with the necromancy spell he had cast on Roark. He cast the same spell on the soulless hellcat, but only after he had Roark and Inkling-Glendar hack it into pieces.

  Disappointed that the bloody parts didn’t squirm or twitch with attempts to reform a unified body, Pael had the haunches, and other meaty parts of the beast, skinned down, and placed by the cook’s pots. The rest, he had Glendar – Inkling, he supposed now – bury.

  After that, he summoned the mightiest of the dark things that had escaped the Seal before Shokin.

  A Choska was no lowly minion, like a wyvern or a hellcat. It was an intelligent lesser demon that could command such things on its own. Somewhat bat-like in build, it was large enough to carry a man as big as Roark on its stout, leathery wings with ease. It had a wide, mastiff-like head, with tiny eyes that glowed deep and cherry. Its mouth was full of sharp, dagger-length teeth, and its clawed feet could snatch a man, or even a horse, off the ground, or just as easily mangle them to bloody ribbons.

  When the Choska demon came gliding down into the grassy plain in the pre-dawn light, and landed among the sleeping soldiers without a sound, Pael was delighted. He was further pleased when the thing moved before him, and bowed its dog-like head in supplication.

  “Shoo-Keen,” it hissed. “How might I repay the one who released me?”

  “The sword that might return either of us to that dark empty place is in the hands of a boy,” Pael said. “Errion Spightre has recognized him as Pavreal’s heir. I tell you that in warning, but the boy has no idea of the true power and purpose of what he carries. He is the last of his line, and if he dies so does the power of the Banishing Blade. Accept my gift: this undead human warrior is yours to comm
and. Use him as you will to eliminate our shared threat, and your debt to me will be paid. Either kill the boy or relieve him of Errion Spightre.”

  “Yesss, Shoo-keen,” the Choska demon hissed, and gave a bob of satisfaction towards Roark.

  Silently, the demon ordered the undead warrior to mount his shoulders, and was pleased that Roark did so obediently. After the big steel-clad man was situated, the Choska asked Pael, “Where might I find this boy?”

  “You’ll find his trail in the lower region of the Giant Mountains. I trust you’ll be able to track him from there. Use all you must to aid you. Failure is unacceptable.”

  “I will not fail you, Shoo-keen,” the Choska demon hissed. “When I bring you the blade, and the boy’s head, my debt will be paid in full, for all eternity.”

  “Bring me either, and I will grant you whatever you desire: an entire kingdom to feed upon perhaps? Or a place of power beside me as I send the world into chaos? Do not fail me, and whatever you desire is yours.”

  “Yesss, Shoo-keen. Yesss!” the Choska replied greedily.

  It didn’t linger further. It turned and leapt once on its big hind legs. After a second hopping leap, it snapped out its wide leathery wings and took to the air. Roark rode solemnly on its shoulders, looking like some ancient battle lord on his way to face something far worse than death.

  Pael shivered at their departure. He could only imagine the terror that the sight of the dark armored warrior riding atop the Choska demon would instill in those who saw it coming. He was almost certain that the sight of his daughter, Shaella, on the back of her massive red dragon didn’t exude as much pure evil-born fear as the two red-eyed dark things that had just left.

  The memory of Shaella’s wrathful eyes on him the last time he had seen her, caused him to re-evaluate his estimation. Nothing, Pael decided, was more terrifying, than an angry bitch on a dragon’s back.

  Save, of course, for the wrath of Pael.

  Morning came, and the hung-over soldiers unknowingly stood in line for their rations of hellcat stew. The meaty slop helped take the edge off the residual ale induced grogginess. The hellcat’s haunch-meat had a succulent sausage flavor. That pleasant taste masked the evil taint that Pael’s experimental spell casting had left upon the meat.

  Pael was gone. King Inkling, in Glendar’s body, explained Roark’s absence to his other bodyguards, with the suggestion of a secret mission involving Pael. They wanted as little to do with the wizard as possible. They accepted the information, and as good soldiers do, asked no questions and showed no further concern.

  Inkling spent the day’s march getting used to riding a horse, and feeling out the confining body of King Glendar. The imp was pleased that Glendar’s mind was cruel and weak. At least the mental aspect of his new home was comfortable. A few nights later, a bit of Glendar’s consciousness fought to the forefront long enough to get Inkling to experience a woman at a roadside inn in the Dakaneese Town of Pearsh. After that night, Inkling gave his host enough headway to allow himself to tap Glendar’s knowledge of human ways. It wasn’t long before Inkling was enjoying the flesh of women as much as, if not more so, than Glendar ever had.

  The towns of Owask and Osvoin were ripe with Wildermont slave women. Inkling didn’t know it, but his obsession with human sexuality kept him in perfect character. Not even the Duke of Portsmouth, one of Glendar’s captain’s, and a man who had spent much time around Glendar over the years, suspected that the King was not in control of his own faculties.

  For Inkling, the farther south the march took them, the more he grew to like his new place in the world. He figured he would be disappointed when they finally reached O’Dakahn and they had to start looking for ships to carry them on to Seaward. He was wrong however.

  O’Dakahn was a cesspool of lust and greed, full of whores and gambling halls. Anything you could imagine could be had for a price. It was all free to Glendar, of course. The new King of Westland had brought with him gifts, which caused King Ra’Gren to cater to his every whim. As King Inkling and Glendar’s four hundred soldiers boarded the three ships, King Ra’Gren provided for them, he found he was more than content. As they say, “It’s good to be the king.”

  It was only later, that Inkling began to have regrets about his situation. A human body can sometimes get very uncomfortable. He, and most of the men aboard his particular ship, began to fall ill, and when the men began to vomit blood and die horribly, the other two ships started to keep a distance. As it turned out, being a King held little weight with superstitious sailors and ships’ captains at sea, especially when everyone on your ship had the plague.

  Chapter 41

  King Jarrek, at the moment, was a bitter man. Not only had he been forced to flee his own lands, he had watched as some of his closest companions died trying to defend his exit. He’d seen the wizard Keedle, his longtime adviser and confidant, blown from the wall like so much fodder. Men, nobles, friends and family alike had died around him in their hard earned, red King’s Guard armor.

  He had watched on helplessly as the Ladies’ Twin Towers were toppled by the Westland wizard. Inside them, his own mother and his betrothed, along with most every notable mother, daughter, and sister in all of Castlemont had been killed in the devastating crumble.

  He had seen soldier after soldier sizzled in their tracks, and then was held in shocked horror as the pride of this kingdom, the millennia old mountain fortress Castlemont, was leveled by the magic of a single man.

  Targon, the Highwander wizard, said it was done by demon’s might, but King Jarrek had seen with his own eyes that it was Pael. When he had attended Glendar’s Coming of Age celebration a few years ago, the spindly, old egg-headed wizard had given him the shivers. And Glendar, oh what a disappointment to old King Balton that boy must’ve been. The only thing keeping Jarrek from crumbling himself was the hope that he might someday get the chance to face Glendar and Pael; that, and the fact that somebody had to go to Dakahn and free his people from the slavers.

  King Jarrek suddenly thought about the warning message he had sent to King Broderick. The rider was Marshal Culvert’s son, Brady. The Marshall had died in the battle. Jarrek hoped that Brady would make it to Dreen, the capital city of Valleya, to warn them of what was marching their way. Brady would be safe there. The young man had trained hard with both bow and blade to earn his Redwolf armor, and was a capable woodsman too. With two of the four cavalry men they had picked up in High Crossing riding with him, Jarrek figured that Brady had a better chance of getting through than most would. Old Marshal Culvert would’ve been proud of his son. Jarrek hoped he had remembered to tell Brady as much before he had sent him off.

  As his mind drifted from horror to horror, Jarrek stared absently at the dark clouds rolling down from the Giant Mountains to the north of them. A light drizzle fell now, but the downpour was coming. He could feel it in his weary bones. The storm mimicked his mood all too well, and the precipitation hid the occasional tear that trailed down his cheek. They would be in the thick of the lower Evermore soon. The forest would offer at least some protection from the coming weather.

  King Jarrek, his three remaining red armored guardsmen, the Highwander wizard Targon, and two cavalrymen made up the party. The cavalrymen were nothing more than glorified bridge guards, who had probably fled at the first sign of attack. Jarrek couldn’t be angry with them for it though. After all, what was he doing?

  The group had crossed out of Wildermont and somehow managed to escape the Westlanders’ pursuit. They had made it into the fringes of the Evermore Forest, where it touches the northern tip of the Wilder Mountains and borders the Leif Greyn Valley.

  For days, they had ridden up and over rocky ridges, then down through thickly forested valleys. Up and down, over and over again, until finally, they were about to put the hills behind them. They were now descending the last un-forested hillock and about to enter the thick of the Evermore Forest.

  Targon had tried desperately to get word to his Qu
een of what had transpired, but it wasn’t yet to be. He had drained himself so completely when he’d made the tunnel-like tube through the fabric of the world to save the King of Wildermont, that he was only now, days later, beginning to look alive again. Jarrek had thought that the man would die. At first, Targon had looked like a corpse. If he hadn’t insisted on coming with them, Jarrek might have left him in one of the mountain villages that they had passed recently. The wizard’s intense desire to share his ramblings of demon might and broken bindings with his Queen, and the simple fact that Jarrek wouldn’t deny a man who had saved his life anything, had kept him from it.

  King Jarrek wasn’t sure he wanted to meet with the Witch Queen. She was rumored to be a strange and powerful woman, who had lived for hundreds of years. Just thinking about the unnatural mess of it made Jarrek shiver.

  He doubted that most of the tales were true. Targon had told him that they weren’t; that she wasn’t really an old witch, and that she would most likely help them in any way she could. But who could trust the ramblings of a half dead wizard. The remoteness of her kingdom, and the strange ways of the people who ventured out of it, lent to the spooky image of Highwander, like butter lends flavor to bread.

  King Jarrek’s practical side knew that the place, however magical and mystical in nature, was once the seat of all the human lands. The palace in the city of Xwarda was ancient, and had once been the home of many of the realm’s heroes and legends.

  Targon didn’t have to defend his Queen, or the Kingdom she ruled over. King Jarrek most likely wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. As a man of honor, Jarrek would dutifully repay his debt by escorting the man any where he wished ago. What could a Witch Queen do to him compared to what King Glendar and Pael had already done? She couldn’t be as bad as rumors would have one believe. Maybe she would lend him enough men that he could ride to Dakahn and try to free some of the people Glendar had sent into slavery there. It was a big hope, but enough to keep him from sinking into the gloom and sorrow that threatened to consume him.