The Sword and the Dragon

by M. R. Mathias

  “Where’s Lady Trella?” Wyndall asked Lady Zasha, in an exasperated whisper. He had only found one of the women he was trying to rescue waiting for him in the chapel, and was furious about it.

  “She had to get something while the lizards were distracted,” Zasha responded fretfully.

  At the moment, Wyndall’s expression was easily as terrifying as the prospect of getting caught by the Zardmen.

  “It’s important,” she added in a mousy whisper.

  As terrified as she was, she couldn’t help thinking how handsome this brave boy was that Lord Gregory had entrusted with his dying words. Without realizing it, Zasha inched closer to him. He made her feel safe, a feeling she hadn’t felt in quite some time.

  Fargin women, Wyndall thought.

  One had boiled his blood already, without even being in his presence, and the other had melted his heart with her timid voice and liquid eyes. He was pleased that he didn’t have to wait long. Lady Trella soon eased through the double doors that lead to the corridor beyond the chapel. She was struggling with a pillow sack, which appeared to be far too empty to warrant such effort. As she drew closer, the dull clank of precious metal explained why the sack was such a burden to the gaunt woman. Wyndall took it from her, and noticed her hesitation before she finally released it.

  “Come, milady,” he said, forgetting his anger.

  He knew that the value of the jewels and gold in the little sack he now held might make the difference in the success of the escape in the grander sense of things. There would be more to surviving than just getting away from the Zard.

  “Follow me, and hurry. It is slick, and we’ve not much time.”

  His voice was soft and reassuring now, and the strength and surety of it, went far in easing the angst the two women were feeling.

  Through the dark drizzle, they made their way down to the river, to a place just a few hundred yards from where the head water came spilling over the natural dam that had formed Lion’s Lake. The roar of the powerful waterfall filled the night, but the darkness hid its beauty from the eyes.

  Clayton Widden, a local farmer’s son, was waiting with the little boat. It looked to be a struggle for him to hold it there in the roiling current.

  Wyndall helped the ladies into the craft, and then handed Lady Trella her bag. She nodded her thanks to him, but wasn’t sure if he saw. A moment later, he handed each of them a makeshift shield. They were old wagon wheels, with fence pickets nailed to them.

  “If we are fired upon as we drift out, these will help protect you,” he said, over the sound of the waterfall.

  Worriedly, he glanced back up the hill they had just descended.

  “Lady Zasha, could you please hand up that bow?”

  His tone had become suddenly urgent. He took it from her, strung it, and then threw the quiver of arrows over his shoulder.

  “Clayton, be ready to shove off at my command,” he ordered, then moved off the dock back towards the hill.

  “It’s past time to go,” Clayton was saying, but Wyndall didn’t hear him. Bryant had topped the hill.

  There were two dark shapes, and only the slight glimmering reflection off of their rain soaked clothes as they ran, made them noticeable. One was Bryant. The other, was a young stable boy of about ten years of age, named Dort. Three, maybe four, Zard were not too far behind them. As soon as Wyndall had a good aim, he loosed an arrow. One of the Zard tripped forward, and went into a tumble of scaly limbs and tail.

  “Don’t wait! Go!” Bryant yelled.

  “We’ll swim for it!” added Dort.

  Wyndall loosed another arrow, but missed his mark. He was drawing back a third, when he felt the gut bow string stretch to uselessness. The rain had gotten to it.

  Clayton was urging him back to the boat, and as soon as he got in, they were off, swept downstream by the raging current. Already, Bryant and Dort were being forced to angle their mad dash down the hill towards them.

  “Hold up the shields!” Wyndall commanded, as he drew his sword, and moved to the boat’s prow, which was momentarily facing the unfolding scene of the chase.

  Dort leapt out over the water, his small legs churning, as if he were running through the air. Arrows rained down from above, some thumping into the wood of the boat and the shields, others plunking into the river’s dark water. Bryant barely escaped the claws of a Zardman, and dove headlong into the river. That Zardman, and a few others, came in after him.

  From beneath the surface, a slithering, snakelike wake formed just behind Dort, who was swimming towards the boat with all the effort he could muster. It was all Wyndall could do to plunge his rusty blade blindly into the river behind the boy, as he reached the boat. The sword felt like its tip grated across the river bottom, until it violently shook itself free from his hand, and sank away.

  Bryant surfaced just behind the boat, but a leaping lizardman came splashing down into the river right on top of him. The huge sheet of water thrown up by the splash, and the swell of the impact, rocked the boat violently. Wyndall fell awkwardly onto the floorboards, but Dort used the motion of the wave to pull himself up. The two women did the rest, and hauled him over the side, like he was an oversized fish. The last thing Wyndall remembered, before slipping into unconsciousness, was the gasps of horror from the two women, and Bryant’s blood-chilling scream as the swift swimming Zard tore him apart in the water.

  Bzorch’s thirteen chosen tore through the trading town of Halter with a sickening fury. After feeding on the slower of the townsfolk, they spent two nights raping, and recuperating from their long trek through the fields and forests of central Westland. Then they were off again, loping away towards Locar. What they found when they got there was more daunting than anything their simple minds had ever conceived.

  The size of the bridge city was overwhelming. It was bigger than ten of the other towns they had seen put together. Why anyone would dwell in a place so crowded and noisy, none of them, save for Bzorch, could fathom.

  As they had been ordered to do by the Dragon Queen, they waited on the outskirts of the city for nightfall, killing anyone who ranged too close to their hiding place. That night, just as planned, the dragon came.

  As Claret set upon Locar with Queen Shaella riding proudly on her back, the Breed giants tore into the city with a vengeance. While most of the chosen wreaked havoc in the city, Bzorch, with Claret’s help, went about doing the important work. Together, they demolished the crossing bridge. Claret, with her massive claws, crumbled, and crushed, huge sections of the stone worked archways, and burned anything flammable to ash, while Bzorch bashed away the smaller parts of the structure. It wasn’t long before the deed was done. The only bridge over the wide and mighty Leif Greyn River, which crossed from Westland into the eastern kingdoms, was un-crossable. Westland was isolated now, and Shaella’s conquest was complete. No army could march into the west, without first going through the Giant Mountains, or swimming the Leif Greyn River, or sailing around the great expanse of the Marshlands, and those three occurrences would be easy to defend against.

  Just as Bzorch became the undisputed Lord of Locar, Shaella, Dragon Queen and Master Sorceress, leader of the half beast Breed giants, and the Mastress of the Zardmen of the marsh, became the sole ruler of Westland. And her Westland, unlike Glendar’s, was a kingdom that no one could take from her.

  Chapter 44

  Hyden had to explain to Mikahl how the elves felt about the humans, how human folly, over and over throughout time, had brought trouble to the lands, and how the elves had come to the rescue, again and again. He also tried to explain that unsheathed, Ironspike’s presence might bring more dark creatures down upon them at any moment.

  Mikahl put the sword away, but he still fumed at the idea that they weren’t welcome in the elven forest city, or whatever it was. The fact that they were being detained out in the regular forest, while Vaegon gathered his things, appalled him.

  “Here we are, going off to try and save the world from
the likes of demons, and these fargin yellow-eyed bastards won’t even let us stop in for a visit!”

  “Sounds like something my father would say,” Hyden said, more to himself than to Mikahl.

  The wolves didn’t hunt that night, nor did Talon fly through the forest. They, and the companions, just waited there in the camp for Vaegon to return.

  Hyden laid down, and stretched out to rest. The wolves, save for Grrr, did the same. Grrr sat close to Mikahl, who was sitting against his tree, with Ironspike lying sheathed across his lap. All around them, seen, and yet unseen, elves guarded their position. They didn’t do it in an obvious manner – they weren’t ringed around the group with drawn weapons – but they were there, and not trying to hide the fact completely. That glint of yellow eyes over there, a rustle of undergrowth, and a muffled whisper over here. They could have been utterly silent, Mikahl knew; he had observed the way the eased through the forest while they were leading him back to the camp earlier. He guessed that they had relaxed, and let their guard down, but didn’t understand why.

  Hyden had caught up to Mikahl when he had come upon the distressed wolves and the armed elves, and just in the nick of time. Mikahl had been certain he was about to become an elven porcupine, and still his instinct had been to attack in order to defend the wolves. Hyden’s shout had been the only thing that had stopped him from it.

  The elf called Deiter, who Mikahl later learned was Vaegon’s younger brother, explained the situation to Hyden, after they each had placed an open palm on the other’s chest, over the heart. After the gesture, bows lowered, and stances relaxed. Hyden spoke soothingly to the Great Wolves and calmed them enough for them to stay quiet. Reluctantly, Mikahl slid Ironspike back into its sheath, but unlike the elves, he didn’t relax his guard. Neither did Grrr.

  There was no doubt that the elves didn’t want them there. It was plain in their expressions, and the way they narrowed those wild, yellow eyes. It was a look one might give after taking a big bite of a piece of rotten meat. Distaste.

  Why was Vaegon so different? Mikahl asked himself. Maybe he’s not so different, maybe he just hides his feelings better. A glance down at the shoulder rig in his lap made him regret ever having that thought. Vaegon was different. The elf had been kind, thoughtful, and most helpful to him. Mikahl decided not to judge any of them yet. He didn’t have to like the way he was being treated, but he also didn’t have to blame the whole race of elves for this lack of hospitality.

  He closed his eyes and used his breathing to clear the anger from his mind. He hadn’t gotten the chance that morning to go through his routine of exercises, something he had done relentlessly every day since Loudin had been killed. He needed that release of sweat and stress to balance his anger and fear. He knew that, if there was even a remote chance of beating the odds that were piling up against them, he would need total clarity to see it through.

  How long he slept, he wasn’t sure, but he was startled awake by a nudge from Grrr’s cold wet nose, and the sound of Vaegon returning.

  He must have slept for some time, because it was full night now. Vaegon had brought two other elves into the camp with him. One had silvery blue hair, which reflected in the camp fire’s light like icicles. The other’s hair was another shade of blue entirely. It was the color of a cloudless summer sky. This elf was ancient. He moved with a slight tremble, and his eyes were more amber than yellow, and had a depth to them that one might get lost in. He nodded at Hyden respectfully, and then looked directly at Mikahl. He spoke in the elven tongue, and Vaegon translated for him.

  “It would be a great honor, friend, if you would allow me to look upon Pavreal’s sword with my own eyes.”

  Mikahl looked at Hyden askance. Hyden nodded that it was all right.

  Mikahl drew the sword. The soft, bluish glow was barely enough to light the radius of the camp, but it still caused a look of awe to form on the faces of the two older elves.

  “Tell them, it’s no longer Pavreal’s sword,” Mikahl said sharply. “Ask him if it were Pavreal standing here, instead of me, this would have been a more courteous meeting. We’ve been traveling for weeks, and haven’t even been offered water.”

  Mikahl’s words put a mortified look on Vaegon’s face, but a gentle urging from the older elf caused him to repeat them, word for word.

  The old elf’s response was quick and hard.

  “He said his grandfather helped to forge that blade, and that there is a cool, crisp stream only a stone’s throw from here.”

  “Pavreal was my ancestor,” said Mikahl, who was still riled. “You all should be ashamed to be afraid to bring your grandfather’s work among your people, no matter what sort of trouble it might bring with it.”

  The old elf listened to Vaegon’s translation, and then smiled sadly. After a moment, he spoke in a far softer tone. Again, Vaegon translated.

  “He apologizes for the lack of hospitality and courtesy shown to you, to our group, to us. It was not his doing. He says that his wisdom is sometimes relied upon to make decisions, but he is not a true decider. The Queen Mother, after seeking the guidance of the forest, through the Heart Tree, made the decisions that offend you so much. He only wishes to lay his eyes upon the fruit of his grandfather’s labors. If it were up to him, the sword would be displayed at every gathering, and with pride and honor for its intent.”

  Vaegon added his own words now.

  “He is a respected man among my people, Mik, and one of the oldest of my kind. Please don’t be rude to Em Davow.”

  Vaegon gestured at the forest full of glittering yellow eyes that surrounded them. “This is not his doing.”

  “Then, I apologize for my rudeness,” Mikahl said, with a nod of his head. He took Ironspike by its glowing blade, and offered the hilt to Em Davow.

  The instant he let go of the blade, the bluish glow vanished, leaving the insufficient dancing orange flames of the campfire to illuminate their faces.

  The aged elf took the hilt, moved closer to the fire’s light, and studied the sword reverently. The fact that its magical inner radiance didn’t acknowledge him was a statement unto itself, and more than once Em Davow glanced up at Mikahl curiously.

  The other elf and Hyden were having a quiet conversation. Mikahl saw the resemblances to Vaegon in Deiter and the older elf, and knew that he was their father. He took another long gaze at Em Davow then. If the ancient elf was related to Vaegon, it didn't show.

  Mikahl hoped he hadn’t offended, or embarrassed Vaegon’s family. His intention had been to make the old elf aware that he disliked being guarded in the forest, when they might be bathing, eating a warm meal, or resting somewhere more comfortable. He also didn’t like the fact that the whole realm was currently threatened by some dark, and evil power, and the elves didn’t even seem to care.

  “He says,” Vaegon started translating Em Davow’s words again. “He hopes that the evil we must face is swiftly defeated, and that after it is done, you might return. He hopes then that his tree can be open to you as it should be now.”

  “Tell him,” Mikahl paused. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

  Em Davow was probably full of ancient wisdom. It showed in his deep, amber eyes. Now that Mikahl’s anger wasn’t clouding his mind, he wished the meeting had started differently. He could have gleaned a thing or two from the ancient elf, if he had been a bit more diplomatic. Now, he felt too awkward to ask anything of him.

  “Tell him, thank you,” was all he could think of, as he took Ironspike back and quickly inserted it into its sheath, before its glow became pronounced.

  He felt more than a little ashamed at his inability to keep his anger from controlling his mouth. In a feeble attempt to reconcile his rudeness, he put his right hand out, stepped up to Em Davow, and placed his palm over the old elf’s heart. Em Davow returned the gesture, and then made a deep, respectful head bow, which surprised Vaegon. The fact that Mikahl was Pavreal’s sole heir, the rightful King of, not only Westland, but of the entire
Seven Kingdoms, didn’t slip past the old elf.

  “I think it’s time for us to be on our way,” said Hyden.

  “Yes,” Vaegon agreed.

  He was relieved, and as pleased as he was surprised, at the way Mikahl and Em Davow’s exchange had ended. He took a moment to introduce his father to Mikahl, while the camp was being broken. It was a short affair, with only names, and the human gesture of clasping hands taking place, which was fine with Vaegon.

  Hyden paused his rigging of Urp’s pack harness only long enough to make the palm to heart gesture with Deiter, who had come out of the woods to escort his father and Em Davow back to the Elven Heart.

  Before they left, Drent gave Vaegon a palm-sized leather pouch, and hugged his son fiercely. A few more goodbyes were spoken, and then the companions climbed onto the backs of the restless wolves and disappeared into the forest night.

  Mikahl couldn’t help but reflect on the way Vaegon and his father had said farewell. It had seemed as if they both knew that they would never see each other again, or something equally as drastic. The idea of it left a hollow feeling in Mikahl’s gut that didn’t go away until long after the sun had filled the sky again.

  They rode swiftly around the massive tree trunks of the deeper forest, over shrubs, and through silvery moonlit glades. Dawn broke quickly, but the wolves paid it no heed. They ran until well after midday, when the stored energy of the last few idle days started to wear off, and the heat started to get to them.

  A mossy, pebble strewn creek ran through the forest where they stopped, and while the wolves lapped up bellies full of its cool water, Vaegon began making a ring of stones for a cook fire. He wasted no time gathering up some dead fall, and setting it to blazing. Then, he curiously took out a small tin pot from a pack he had taken from home, and began boiling water.

  Huffa and Urp went off to hunt, and Hyden followed them for a while, from above, through Talon’s vision. Feeling the hawklings hunger, Hyden had the bird inspect the area around the camp. Once he was satisfied that there were no immediate dangers about, he let Talon go hunt for his own meal.