The Sword and the Dragon wt-1

by Michael Robb Mathias

  “Whitten Loch means White Lake,” Vaegon said, matter-of-factly.

  “I wouldn’t know what it means,” shrugged Drick. “But you’re about to see it for yourself.”

  Unlike the other gates that they had come to, the one before them was closed. The wall, some twenty feet tall, covered in vines, and moldy growth, had a single row of arrow slits up high, and a wicked looking, spiked iron overhang, running along its top.

  Before Hyden could study it further, a gruff voice spoke out to them.

  “You’re expected,” the gatekeeper said, while eyeing Urp cautiously.

  He let out a loud whistle, aiming his head up towards someone unseen on the wall. From deep within the stonework, came the sound of rattling chains. Slowly, the ironbound gates began to creep open, and beyond them, Hyden saw all the splendor of the world revealed before him.

  In the foreground, was a fountain lake. Around it, stretching a way to either side, into the dusky night, was a well tended forested park. It was illuminated by lanterns, hanging from evenly spaced poles, along white marble tiled pathways, that wound through the trees, around manicured gardens, and perfectly trimmed shrubberies. Beds of multicolored flowers were scattered here and there among private benches and open plots of lush trimmed grass.

  Beyond the lake, and reflecting dizzily on the surface of the rippling water, was the palace of Xwarda: a castle of white marble blocks that thrust up out of the earth and looked like a growth of crystal shards. The glittering stained glass panels were brilliantly backlit. The scenes that each of them depicted were clear, vivid, and at least forty feet tall. Hyden recognized a few of them, from stories he had heard Berda, and more recently Vaegon, and King Aldar tell.

  There was the wizard, Dahg Mahn, surrounded by all of his animals on a battlefield, across from a horde of monsters. Another panel showed the forging of the Hammer of Doon and Mikahl’s sword. Two dwarves, with faces aglow with dragon’s fire, were hammering away at the creations. A wizard and a group of elves, hovered around behind them, while a long-haired giant watched over them all, with his huge muscled arms folded across his chest.

  Another depiction showed a trio of dragons. One was a bluish-green color, another white as snow, and the third was a dark, ruby red. They were circling in flight around what Hyden thought was the Summer’s Day Spire. The center depiction was of a golden armored warrior fighting a horde of dark and familiar looking creatures. A hellcat, and what might have been one of the bat-like creatures that had killed Grrr, and a dozen other crimson-eyed things with fangs and claws faced down the hero.

  “Pavreal,” Hyden mouthed in awe.

  Another depiction showed a mountain split in two and legions of ax and hammer wielding dwarves racing out to meet a mass of greenish skinned, trolls.

  The rest of the scenes, thirteen in all, were no less spectacular. Hyden figured that if one of the panels was laid on the ground, it would be twenty paces wide and just as tall. He figured that only the greatest magic could have created such a wonder.

  Below the row of monumental masterpieces, were several under-lit peaked archways, which were divided by great spiraling columns. Under each archway was a set of curtained window walls, save for the center arch. Under it was a widening ornate marble stairway, and the castle’s grand entry doors.

  Above the row of glittering stained glass portrayals were half a hundred, relatively normal sized windows, reaching up the smooth marble walls in symmetrical rows. Each window was shaped as a perfect miniature of the grand arches below.

  Vaegon was speechless. Even with magic, it must have taken a thousand years to build this place. He was certain that only the long-lived elves could have accomplished such a feat. The way the lake reflected the stained glass, like a shimmering sheet of jewels, the way the towers rose up out of the reflected light into the darkness, only to be haloed by their liquid bronze rooftops; the way the white marble absorbed, and reflected the kaleidoscope of color, and glazed it across its own surface like a sheen of oil polish – those were details he would have thought to be beyond the creative ability of humans. Yet here it was before him.

  Urp had taken off at a dead run towards the lake, and was now lapping at the water greedily. The swans Drick had spoken of, took to flight in a noisy, honking procession, and the emotional depth of their protest at the wolf brought Hyden out of his daze of awe. Then, the sound of the gates booming closed behind him drowned it all out.

  He searched the shoreline, and saw the modest square building that Drick had called a swan shelter. The ranger was absolutely right with his assessment. It looked nothing like a temple. It looked more like a solid block of marble, which had been left over from the construction of the palace. If there were any doors, windows, or features whatsoever, they had to be on the side of it that faced the lake and the palace entryway, because all Hyden could see was smooth weathered stone.

  Two of the swans Urp had unsettled, glided out of the gloom, and back into the torch light. They landed in the lake with a graceful splash, and then swam towards the structure. They came to a ramp-like rise, and waggled out of the water, seemingly up into the far side of the place. Hyden was just about to spur his mount over to investigate further, when the swiftly growing sound of hoof beats approaching on one of the tiled stone paths, filled the night.

  An ornately garbed troop of suspicious looking soldiers, all sporting the Witch Queen’s Blacksword emblem, came riding up out of the darkness, and met them. A nod of understanding passed between Drick and the commander of the twelve man detachment, that set off alarms in the minds of both Hyden and Vaegon. The men behind the commander were darting their eyes this way and that nervously, which only served to raise the two companions’ level of suspicion. Hyden instinctually called out to Talon to help keep an eye on them.

  “These men will escort you two the rest of the way,” Drick said, with a halfhearted smile. “Luck and leisure to you. I have to go tend to my fallen comrade now.”

  Hyden looked at Vaegon. The elf’s sad expression showed no less concern that Hyden felt, but he indicated, with a nod of his head, that they should follow the soldiers anyway.

  Hyden sought out Talon’s vision as they made their way through the maze of cobbled paths that led to the palace. He half expected to see groups of Blacksword soldiers waiting in ambush behind shrubs, and in the trees, but there were none. That in itself was alarming.

  It was a mild, late summer night. The sky was clear, and the stars were starting to shine overhead. Hyden couldn’t see the moon yet, but the point of his observation was that there should be people out in this clean and beautiful expanse of greenery. As a matter of fact, the whole place should be filled with the refugees, who were crowded in their own filth on the outskirts of the city.

  Suddenly, Talon’s sharp eyes saw something flashing through the trees at great speed towards them. Hyden left his thoughts, and focused in on the sight, and then it all made perfect sense to him.

  Huffa and Oof were tearing through the forest, towards the lake, at breakneck speed. By the way their tails danced about in the air, Hyden could tell that there was no alarm, they were just excited to see Urp. No one was out in the park, because the wolves were loose in it. Hyden figured that the wolves had caused the nervous looks, and the uptight demeanor of the soldiers that were escorting them as well.

  “Have they been fed?” Hyden asked one of the men, as Huffa came streaking by. A few of the horses balked at the sight, but the men riding them did a good job of keeping them under control.

  “A leg of lamb for the two this morning,” the commander answered. “She ordered a hunt be made this afternoon, so there should be a doe or two about, any time now.”

  “Could you put out another leg while they wait?” Hyden asked. “Urp, the wolf that came in with us, is injured, and exhausted. He needs rest and food badly. His master, King Aldar, of the realm of giants, would appreciate the kindness, I’m certain.”

  The last bit, he said with an air of authority,
doing his best to imitate Mikahl’s stately tone. The way the blood drained from the man’s face at the mention of the Giant King, told Hyden that the matter would be promptly handled. He would have asked about Mikahl then, but they had come up under the long entry that sheltered the grand stairway leading up into the intricately carved entrance to the Palace of Xwarda.

  Men were waiting to take the horses. When they dismounted, both Vaegon and Hyden nearly fell to the ground in agony. The ache in their inner thighs and lower backs assaulted them as soon as they were on their feet. Neither had ridden a horse before the long ride from the camp. The saddles had looked more comfortable than a wolf’s back, but now, it was all the two them could do to stand upright without moaning or stumbling over.

  Hyden’s will to make a good impression, and not show weakness to these people, who may or may not be an enemy, helped him master his pain. Vaegon cheated, and spelled his pain away. Under another circumstance, Hyden might’ve made a jest about the discomfort, but Mikahl’s dire situation hung heavily in the air, and smothered away any mirth that tried to manifest itself.

  They were greeted at the top of the stairs by a dwarf. Neither of them had ever seen a dwarf before, and it was shocking. The man was apparently used to the reaction, and didn’t take offense to the slack jawed expressions he received. Hyden wasn’t sure, but he thought that the dwarf might not have ever seen an elf before either. Either that, or the patch over Vaegon’s ruined eye socket held a particular interest to him. A silence hung over them all as they took each other in.

  To Hyden, the dwarf looked as if a normal size man had been smashed down to just over waist tall. His shoulders and waist were as wide and thick as any man’s, only compressed down, as if a Mammoth Shagmar had stepped on him. The dwarf’s hair was a nested mop-like explosion of graying tangles that seemed to erupt up out of his uniform, and spilled down over his shoulders. A huge, bulbous nose parted a set of heavy, white eyebrows, under which the sparkle of dark, yet merry, eyes could be seen. His beard flowed down over his ample belly, the tip of it nearly touching the floor, and only a trace of bottom lip could be seen under his mustache.

  “Dugak’s the name,” he said, in a deep grumbling voice.

  He bowed, and might have been smiling, but it was hard to tell through all that hair.

  “She has been waiting for you in the dining hall. There are refreshments to be had there as well.”

  He indicated for them to enter through the open doors. Hyden went first. Vaegon followed, and was glad that no one tried to take Ironspike from him, because he wouldn’t have let it go.

  Hyden wondered who “she” was. At first, he had assumed it was going to be the woman they had met in the forest, but now as they walked, with loud echoing steps through the beautifully decorated corridors of the palace, he began to think that this “she” that was waiting for them might be Willa the Witch Queen herself.

  The palace didn’t seem like the sort of place a witch would live in, mused Hyden. It was definitely fit for a Queen though. Tapestries, depicting sceneries of all sorts lined the walls of the wide passage they were in. Every so often, a small, but bright lantern was ensconced on the wall. They passed a few open doorways, which gave the impression that the darkened rooms beyond them were cavernous, and as majestic as the rest of the place.

  At a crossing of hallways, four suits of armor stood at the corners. Hyden couldn’t tell if there were men standing perfectly still in the suits, or if they were just for decoration. He tried to peer into a face plate of one helmet, but couldn’t get a good enough look to tell. He found himself peeking back over his shoulders, to try and catch one of them moving.

  Vaegon was contemplating the lighting in the corridor. It didn’t correlate with the widely spaced lanterns, or the limited amount of illumination that they were providing. He noticed that the high ceiling wasn’t marble, like the walls and floor were. It was bright to look at, and probably made of Wardstone, spelled to a soft and steady glow.

  They eventually ended up entering a dim, formal looking dining area. The room was multi-leveled, and on the lower floor, three long identical tables sat empty. At the far end, on an elevated stage-like rise, was another table. This area was lit up with flickering torches on ornate stands, and the table was laden with platters of food and drink.

  The woman, who had brought Mikahl back from the forest rose to greet them as they came in. She wasn’t wearing her armored girdle, or her riding boots anymore, and her hair was no longer in its single braid. Her golden locks flowed like a waterfall over her shoulders. And the pale, blue formal gown she wore fit her shapely body well.

  Another dwarf, a servant or attendant, rose beside the lady. This dwarf might have been a female, it was hard to say. It had well groomed hair, long lashes, feminine brows, and even the pronounced bulge of breasts under its garments, but, the well groomed beard that flowed down to its waste was thick, full, and disorienting. Neither of the companions pondered the dwarf’s gender very long, because the look on the human woman’s face was so sad and grim that their concern was only for Mikahl.

  Hyden was so suddenly consumed with grief, that he didn’t even hear Dugak introduce the woman.

  “Welcome to the Wardstone Witch’s hall. Willa Undite, the Queen of Highwander has been expecting you.”

  Chapter 49

  “Shoookin,” the wounded Choska demon called out an ethereal feeling for Pael.

  It sensed the demon wizard at the edge of the Evermore Forest, north of the ruined city of Castlemont, not far from where King Jarrek, and the Highwander wizard, Targon, had killed the wyvern that had attacked them. The Choska found Pael there on his hands and knees.

  The wizard was searching the ground for a certain type of mushroom, one that only grew in the shadow of the Evermore’s gray oak, because the spore fell to the ground in the droppings of the scarlet sparrows that nested there. He had already collected several dozen of the purple and yellow spotted mushroom caps, but figured that he needed twice as many more to get the yield that he required. He was growing frustrated over the amount of labor involved in his search, and he was missing Inkling, who excelled at tasks such as these. As the morning wore into the afternoon, the sun’s rays began dissolving the poison out of the mushrooms, leaving them white, chalky, and useless. In the shadows of the gray oaks though, he was still finding the potent ones.

  Pael, so used to getting his way now, was discovering that even great magical power had its limits. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t stop the sun from ruining the mushrooms, and he couldn’t just make the mushrooms appear in his basket either. Therefore, the most powerful wizard in the realm was reduced to crawling around in bird droppings, to find what he needed to execute his master plan.

  The Choska demon’s sudden appearance hadn’t startled him, but it had effectively stopped his search for the day. He huffed out a sigh. There was no way around it. He would have to hunt Blood Caps again in the morning to meet his need. He checked the wicker basket he carried to make sure the ones he had already harvested were covered with cloth and protected from the sun’s rays. It wouldn’t do to have them turn to chalk while he conversed with the Choska demon.

  Rising to his feet, and brushing the muck off of his robes, he noticed for the first time that Roark wasn’t on the Choska’s back, and that it was bleeding thick, black blood from several wounds.

  “Did you get the sword?” Pael asked with growing excitement.

  “Nooo,” the Choska hissed. “But the boy has been mortally wounded.”

  “Wounds can be healed!” Pael snapped. “Why didn’t you stay and finish the deed?”

  “There were others helping the boy, Great Wolves from the northern mountains, and the Witch Queen and her archers. There was a young Beastling as well, but it matters not.” The demon paused, and breathed in deeply.

  One of the wounds in its side made a slow, wet sucking sound.

  “Look at the wound Pael. The blade was alight with its power when it sank int
o me! I thought I was doomed, but it was too weak to draw in my essence. Errion Spightre’s power is no more!”

  Pael looked. The blade had entered just in front of the Choska’s hind leg. The wound was deep, wide, and near the skin, but more of a stab, than a slash. Black blood had clotted around the opening, but hadn’t been able to seal it in scab. The Choska’s flight had opened, and reopened, the gash again and again, with its wing beats.

  With a resigned sigh, and without bothering to wash the poisonous residue of the mushrooms he had been picking from his hands, Pael probed the wound. He spoke a word under his breath, and his right hand began to glow a dull, yellow color that was barely discernible in the bright daylight. Without prompting the Choska, he pushed his arm deep into the wound, and went to work.

  The Choska let out a gasping roar, but managed to hold itself still. The pain was tremendous, and probably not necessary. The demon-beast knew that Pael was punishing it for not keeping its promise to bring back the boy’s head or the sword. It had no choice but to take the pain Pael was inflicting. Its wound was as mortal as the boy’s was, and only Pael would bother to heal it. No one else had that kind of power, or would dare to get close enough to do such a deed. The Choska had no choice other than to suffer the excruciating torment until Pael was done.

  When the sword wound was repaired, Pael went around the creature, pulling arrows out of its hide, and healing the minor wounds. There were far more arrows than Pael had first thought. The one in the demon beast’s nostril was the one Pael saved for last, and he was far from gentle when he yanked it free. All of the Choska’s agony was quickly flooded over by relief then. Of all the wounds, that one was the most irritatingly painful.

  “I’ll need you soon demon,” said Pael.

  “Shoookin, you owe me my freedom,” the Choska hissed with as much respect in its voice as it could muster. “You said that -”

  “NO!” Pael cut the demon off with a fierce shout. “You were to bring me the boy’s head or the sword! You brought me neither! And now, you not only owe me your service, you owe me your life!”