“The men from Settsted are arriving,” Pael continued as if nothing out of the ordinary had just happened; as if he were on the outside of the pavilion and could see the men with his own two eyes; as if King Glendar wasn’t wiping ice crystals from his eyelashes.
“I suggest that you claim a few of them to attend to your command pavilion. The rest of the Southern Muster should arrive on the morrow. Have them round up every single Wildermont man, woman and child that can’t wield a weapon or pull a cart. When the siege begins, have a detachment of soldiers march them down through Low Crossing and on to O’Dakahn. Send a scroll presenting them to King Ra’Gren as a gift. He and his slavers will like that. It will help his Overlords to see things our way when we need their ships later.”
Pael stopped pacing again, and searched Glendar for some sign that he had been paying attention. When he was satisfied with what he saw, he made for the tent flap. He had more pressing matters to attend to this day.
“Pael,” Glendar called, as the wizard was about to leave.
“What is it, boy? I have business elsewhere.”
King Glendar eyes found the ground somewhere between the two of them. “Thank you,” he mumbled.
“You’re welcome son,” Pael replied almost warmly. Then he disappeared out the tent flap.
Pael spent half of the day flying back to his tower in the form of a crow. He could have transformed himself into larger bird, an eagle or a condor, and made the trip in half the time, but he didn’t want to attract attention to himself. He wasn’t so much worried about the old and infirm, the wives, mothers, and small children who were all that was left inhabiting the Kingdom of Westland. It was more of a precaution, born of careful habits, and distrust of those that might try to detect his movements. He was certain that there were still plenty of enemies about. They would expect him to fly as something powerful and proud. None of them, he hoped, would question the flight of a common carrion bird, such as a lowly crow.
While he was flying, Pael thought about King Glendar. He wondered how the boy could’ve turned out so completely ignorant and pig-headed. He could just picture the fool stepping out of his Command Pavilion into a flurry of Wildermont long arrows because he had set the tent too close to the wall. He had to bite back the chirping cackle that passed for a crow’s laugh. As he neared his destination, his thoughts drifted towards Shaella’s last message. He hoped that he had enough time to properly prepare for what was to come. There was much to do.
Once he was in sight of Lion’s Lake and Lakeside Castle, he made for the gaping hole the demon Shokin had left in his tower wall. Inside, he returned to his human form, and took his lift down to the darkened library, where a dozen ancient texts were spread out across an old reading table. With a point of his finger, the lamp hanging from a brass wall hook, flared to life, and the dimness of the musty room abated. Grotesque forms of melted dripping wax spread away from tiny used-up candle nubs at the table’s corners.
Most of the last few days, Pael had been there gathering in every bit of knowledge he could find on the subject of binding a spectral demon. He had learned much, but not enough.
He made a note to himself to send for more candles, and not for the first time, found that he missed Inkling the imp. Having to seek out a lamp, after the candles had guttered out, while in the middle of reading an account of the Priests of Kraw, had been a great reminder of how the minute details of a thing can suddenly become paramount. He could’ve just cast a light spell, but then the forty-odd pages of the priests’ tediously scribbled writing that he had been committing to memory, would have to be reread. It was easier to snatch a lantern from the laboratory below. Now, he smiled at the wisdom of that decision. It had been far easier than traipsing through the castle in search of candles.
The Priests of Kraw were necromancers, and seemed to know all sorts of useful things about dealing with demons, devils and the undead. Why they had so carelessly let the journals and manuscripts, detailing some of their greater achievements, get out of their hands, Pael didn’t know. Once he had control of the Wardstone, and all the power that came with it, he would go to the Isle of Borinia, and ask them himself.
In the years that had passed since Pavreal created the Demon Seal, the Priests of Kraw had become nothing more than second rate cultists, but Pael wasn’t about to set foot on their island without enough power at his command to defend himself. As pitiful as they appeared to be now, he was far too wise to underestimate them. That was for another day though. What he needed from the priests was right before him.
Pael’s library shelves were many, and all of them were crowded with books, both new and old. The texts were from everywhere one could imagine, and from some places that defied what the untrained mind could fathom. Ancient volumes from the Dwarven Eminence, the journals of a dozen elven druids, and an entire shelf of manuscripts, that Pael couldn’t yet translate, that were supposedly from the lands beyond the Giant Mountains, took up only a corner of the room.
Pael had even collected, in his vast travels, a dedicated set of drawings that detailed Afdeon, the Giant King’s massive stronghold. The shelves along the library’s walls were crammed to the point of bowing. There was a set of calfskin volumes so old, that to open them without the aid of powerful protective spells would destroy the pages. There were also Pael’s spell books, immaculately bound and neatly scribed. His three compendia of arcane knowledge sat on a crate on the floor, looking like the other crudely stacked piles of forgotten texts. To touch them, without speaking the proper phrases, was to invite a most horrible death. Pael didn’t want those who tried to violate his precious secrets to die quickly. He wanted to be able to interrogate them while they withered.
The books he had out on the table, all referenced the Dragon Pact, Pavreal’s Seal, or the binding of spectral demons. Pael was searching for a way to keep Shokin’s dark, and mighty power under his control after he opened the Seal and released him. He needed a way to bind the demon to his will, to enslave its vast power, and control it for as long as he needed to. He would need the power to manipulate the Wardstone to its full potential, and the added might wouldn’t hurt when he returned to Castlemont to fulfill his promise to King Glendar.
He read on through the night, and through the next day, as well, until finally, he found what he had been looking for. A sorcerer from the wild and distant land of Harthgar had kept a diary. The Priests of Kraw had made a copy of it. Pael had obtained it years ago and now, after scouring it, he knew what he needed to know. With the Harthgarian sorcerer’s spell, and a human sacrifice to bind the deed, he could open the Seal, release Shokin, and make the demon’s will and power his own. He didn’t need to find a sacrifice though. One would be waiting for him when he got there. Shaella was going to send an excellent offering up into the dragon’s nest to do her bidding. Pael laughed merrily, because he couldn’t have planned it more perfectly.
Without regard for his need of sleep and sustenance, he excitedly began gathering the things he would need to perform the ceremony. He had no time to rest. His timing had to be just right. Too early, and Shaella would fail, too late, and the sacrifice would’ve come and gone.
He wasn’t feeling spell-weary, even though he had flown half of the day while holding a transformation spell on himself, so he took what he needed and made to position himself.
Exactly as Pael had predicted, the battle at Castlemont City slowly turned into a siege. Westland’s armored cavalry swept through the streets, swiftly and easily. Resistance was met in many places, and hundreds of Glendar’s men died.
The Redwolf soldiers lived up to their reputation and fought hard for every inch of ground, but it hadn’t been enough. In the end, Westland’s overwhelming numbers, and the suddenness of the attack, allowed young King Glendar’s army to gain control of everything outside of the castle’s massive outer walls. Siege engines were in place now, and once unleashed, the mighty Wolf King would have to retreat behind the castle’s formidable secondary wall. The
lay of the mountain would be in King Jarrek’s favor after that. New siege engines would have to be built, because there was no way to get anything larger than a wagon through the steep crowded lanes between the two walls. Glendar didn’t care though: he was confident that his wizard would come soon.
There was plenty to do to keep his men busy until Pael came to crumble the castle for him. After ordering Lord Brach to take his troops and carve a path to Dreen through the Wilder Mountains, he ordered another group of his soldiers to begin gathering and herding the innocent folk of Wildermont into pens. Later, he would have them escorted south to O’Dakahn and give them to King Ra’Gren, but for now he would go pick out a few of the prettier women and make them service him while he waited on Pael. After all, the King of Westland, if anyone, was due his share of the spoils of war.
Chapter 27
Gerard Skyler was scared, but not of the climb he was about to make. He was comfortable with that. He was also comfortable with the plan they had come up with – at least he was comfortable with it after he had removed all of the Geka lizards, rope ladders and pulley wheels from the proposal, and then simplified it.
The Zard weren’t the smartest of creatures, Gerard decided, after hearing what they had originally been planning to do. And as reptiles they were instinctually afraid of the dragon’s lair. At the moment though, all Gerard could do was tremble, and pray to the goddess that Flick was capable of keeping the huge creatures swimming in the water around their canoe from eating them.
He felt like he was sitting right in the water with the huge, toothy snappers that looked to be all around them. Most of the long, thick gator-like beasts were as big, if not bigger, than the canoe. It would take only one swift chop to splinter the craft to pieces, and it was all Gerard could do to keep from covering his eyes and whimpering.
He didn’t want to know what had made that powerful thumping splash behind them. The waves caused by the ruckus threatened to come up over the sides of the little boat. He would have to stand up in the canoe soon, and he was trying not to think about it. He had no idea how he was going to keep his balance while stood. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn’t want any part of his body in that murky, tooth-filled water. Not even a boot tip.
He did his best to focus his attention on the towering formation he was about to climb. He decided that it was correctly named for it rose up out of the marsh and tapered to a sharp point, while curving slightly to the east – exactly like a fang. It was completely black, and formed out of a rough and porous type of stone. The way it rose up out of the swamp and loomed over the tiny canoe, did little to ease his discomfort.
Gerard motioned for Flick to take them to the western side of the Dragon’s Tooth. The way the east side of it curved slowly outward, it would be impossible to climb. If he tried that side, he would be dangling from his hand holds after the midway point.
To the common eye, the western side looked no easier. It was dauntingly steep, but to Gerard it appeared to be a simple climb. To him, it was like a ladder leading up to where the curve started laying over towards the east. After that, it was more like a steep stairway. It would be one of the easiest climbs he had ever made.
His destination was a cavern that went all the way through the formation, up near the sharp tip of the fang. It was like a giant worm had bored a hole from east to west, all the way through the black rock, a thousand feet above the surface of the swamp. The dragon lived in that hole, but Shaella had a plan to keep it occupied, while Gerard snatched away one of its eggs.
He looked at the surface of the stone as they drew closer, then craned his head back, and looked up towards the dragon’s lair. There were plenty of hand and toeholds, no slick hawkling dung to contend with, no angry mother birds pecking and clawing at him, no sheer freefall down to the Lip, or to the rocky canyon floor below it. If Shaella could keep the dragon away, then this would be easy. If Shaella couldn’t keep the dragon away – Gerard didn’t want to think about that.
Shaella and half a hundred of the creepy Zardmen were to handle her part of the plan. She had sworn to Gerard, over and over since the night of the feast that she would keep the dragon from its lair until he was down, and safely back in the canoe with Flick. Last night, as they lay in each other’s arms, she had sworn it again.
“You’ll never even see the dragon after it comes out to feed,” she had said, and he believed her.
Even though she had wanted him, he hadn’t made love to her last night, or the night before. This had confused her. He explained that having sex before a rigorous climb weakened a man’s legs and softened his heart. He told her that was the reason the Skyler women weren’t allowed near the harvest lodge when he and his clansmen took the hawkling eggs each year. They laughed together when he told her that his grandfather called the complication “love legs” and that his older brother, Hyden, had had to explain to him what it meant, because his mother had been too embarrassed to broach the subject with him. Gerard told Shaella that only a fool would climb after a night in bed with her. She took that as a compliment, and spent the night nestled against him, with her head on his shoulder.
From the western side, the Dragon’s Tooth Spire looked more like a fish fin than a fang. It made sense to Gerard, when he remembered Shaella’s explanation of how the water had been flowing past the formation from north to south, eroding at it for ages upon ages. He looked up and could see rays of the morning sun shining through the Dragon’s Wormhole. He studied the spot, letting the location firmly imprint in his mind.
The idea of standing up, and maneuvering from the canoe to the rock face, sent a ripple of nerves through him. He found himself scanning the water, along the base of the spire, for any sign of the ferocious looking snappers that might be lurking there. He didn’t see any, but felt little relief for it.
“Get us directly under the dragon’s hole,” he said quietly to Flick.
He went about checking the backpack that was sitting in the floor of the canoe between his feet. It was fairly heavy, and going through it again helped him forget about the water, and the things swimming in it.
The pack contained over a thousand feet of thin, but strong cord, a makeshift sling cradle to put the dragon’s egg in, a few pieces of dried and salted snake-meat, and two skins of water.
The plan was simple enough: get up there, locate the eggs, and lower one down. Cole would be waiting for it on the eastern side of the spire, where the curve of the formation caused the Wormhole to open up over nothing but air and water. It was simple. The climb down would be easy, because the pack would be empty, and he would be using the western face again. It seemed that the whole thing was going to be too easy. Something Berda had once said, a saying, was floating at the back of Gerard’s mind, but he couldn’t quite grasp it.
“We’re below the lair now,” said Flick.
From the moment Gerard had fought alongside the group on the riverboat, they had begun to treat him as one of their own. They respected him, and seemed to trust his abilities. The look on Flick’s face was a mixture of reverence and worry, as he eased the little boat up close to the base of the formation.
“Are you sure you can do this?” he asked Gerard. “It’s a long way up to the lair.” His voice was hushed, as if speaking too loudly might bring the dragon’s wrath down upon them.
“Just make sure that Cole is there to take the egg, and that you’re here to get me when I come back down,” Gerard chuckled nervously. “I can make this climb in my sleep, but I don’t know how to swim.”
“I swear I’ll be here,” Flick said, with an honest grin on his face. “You’re a brave young man. Shaella chose well.”
Gerard wasn’t sure what Flick meant, so he didn’t reply to the man’s words. Instead, he stated the obvious, in a hesitant tone that betrayed just how tense and high-strung he was feeling at the moment.
“I guess…w…we just wait for th…the dragon to leave now.”
Shaella, and her troop of lizard men, were
using two of the big four-legged gekas to drag their bait into the dragon’s feeding ground. The gekas’ riders were having a hard time keeping the big creatures calm. The harsh smell of rot coming from the uncooked remains of the dragon’s previous meals was thick in the air, and the fresh meat they were dragging was far too close to them. Every creature in the deep marsh understood who the highest predator of the area was, and the dragon almost always carried its kills to this clearing, to roast and consume them. Had the gekas not been as afraid of the zards’ whips as they were of the dragon, they would have been nowhere near the area.
Greyber, and his detachment of Zard, stood alertly by, ready and waiting to do their part. Once Shaella’s troop had the giant snapper they were dragging in place, he and his Zardmen would be responsible for skinning the carcass. Shaella had been adamant: blood, plenty of blood, and exposed meat. The Zardmen all knew the drill. They had been feeding the dragon here for months in preparation for this very day.
Shaella had been on edge all morning. Those around her assumed that it was because of the danger her lover was putting himself in, that or the pressure she would be under to keep the dragon distracted long enough for him to do his deed. It was more than that though. She had tried to get Gerard to let Greyber climb with him, but he had refused her, saying he could manage far better on his own.
“The man might be strong and handy in a sword fight,” Gerard had said, “but, on the side of a rock face, he would be nothing more than dead weight.”
Shaella had stormed away after that, with what might have been tears in her eyes. She couldn’t change his mind. Gerard was climbing alone, or he wasn’t climbing at all.
The Sword and the Dragon Page 29