The Sword and the Dragon

by M. R. Mathias

  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 into 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!”

  Pael seethed and veins bulged out on his rage mottled, egg shaped head. A drop of saliva trailed down his trembling chin, and his eyes flared with promises of violence.

  The Choska cowered in fear, for Shokin spoke the truth. Pael had saved his life, and it hadn’t completed the bargain they had struck. The Choska demon could not yet claim its freedom from the demon-wizard’s service.

  “I will come when you summon me,” the Choska conceded, before it leapt into the air, and winged away in search of a place to rest.

  Pael let the heat in his blood cool a little bit, and then transported himself back to his temporary laboratory. He had taken over the modest twin towered castle that sat in the center of the Red City, Dreen. When he got there, he carefully put the Blood Caps in a stone box, covered it securely, and then lay down to rest. The healing of the Choska had taken its toll on his strength. The plain fact that it took far more energy to heal, than it did to destroy, wasn’t lost on him. As he drifted off to sleep, he wondered if someone would expend that much power to heal the boy, and if Ironspike had really exhausted itself of its power.

  He found that the low, wailing cries of frustration and anger coming from the crippled undead that were scattered about the city, helped him sleep. Nearly a hundred burned, broken, or semi-dismembered men and women that couldn’t die, had been left behind in the city. Pael had contemplated sending someone around to behead them, to send them to true death, and put them out of their misery. Eventually he would, but not yet. For now, he let the sounds of their restless agony, and their horrid cries of frustration, carry him into that deep place of sleep were Shokin’s powerful dreams came to him.

  “I’m sorry General Chatta, those are my King’s orders,” General Vogle, the commander of the Valleyan forces King Broderick had sent to invade Highwander, said dejectedly.

  “But why?” General Chatta asked.

  His Queen, Queen Rachel, had, after much deliberation, and as much if not more reserve, agreed to aid King Broderick in this attack on Highwander. Now after they had taken two Highwander cities, made the plans, and gained the position to attack the city of Xwarda itself, King Broderick was ordering the Valleyans to pull out. It made no sense.

  “Westland’s new King has attacked Dreen,” General Vogel said, shaking his head with disbelief. “Apparently, he already sacked Castlemont, and carved a passage through the Wilder Mountains. I just don’t see how.”

  “That’s preposterous!” exclaimed Chatta.

  The two generals were in an abandoned city house, getting ready to take supper. Vogel had gotten the message from King Broderick the night before, but had only gotten enough liquor into himself to find the courage to tell General Chatta this afternoon. The two had planned and worked so hard preparing to take Xwarda. The new orders were a grave disappointment. It shamed Vogel to have to pull out now, but if his kingdom’s capital city was under attack, as the messenger had said, there wasn’t much choice in the matter. Already, he had delayed leaving an extra day, and that was far too long.

  The combined Valleyan and Seaward armies, had already taken the Highwander border city of Tarn, and here they sat, about to dine in the newly taken trading town, known as Plat. They were barely a day’s ride from Xwarda, and the siege engines and towers were nearly completed. The new developments back in Dreen made everything they had accomplished, and all the blood they had shed, seem like a waste.

  Plat hadn’t been hard to take. Most of its people had already retreated to the protection of the great wall Xwarda. There had been some resistance, and a score of men had died, but eventually, the Highwander troops that had been waiting for them there, retreated into the hills between Plat and Xwarda. Both generals agreed that they were waiting there to ambush the advance, an advance that wasn’t going to come, now that half of the army was pulling out to ride home.

  The skin around the black tattoo on General Chatta’s bald head was bright, and splotchy, with flustered redness. The tattoo ran from the tip of his nose, where it made a fine point, up and over his head, widening gradually, until it disappeared, neck wide, into the collar of his ringed leather armor. Sometimes, especially when Chatta was angry, General Vogle thought that it looked like Chatta’s head had been split with an ax. Such was the case now, because underne
ath his civil demeanor, Chatta was fuming with rage.

  A sharp rap at the door saved Vogel from Chatta’s hot disgusted glare. Outside the door, a muffled argument was cut short, and then the door flew open. An armored soldier strode in. He looked haggard, and road weary, like he had been riding for days. His normally bright red armor looked brown, due to the grime and dirt caked on it. The man showed no respect for the two Generals’ rank, and it was obvious he was at a point that was beyond that sort of triviality. Chatta stood quickly, and with the rage over Broderick’s decision in his bearing, started to voice his protest of the rude interruption, but the sound of the man’s raspy voice stopped him in his tracks.

  “They’re coming,” Brady culvert croaked. “The dead are coming!”

  “What?” Chatta asked incredulously. Then, to the soldier who had supposedly been guarding the door. “Is this man mad? Get him out of here before I have you flogged!”

  “WAIT!” General Vogle shouted over the room. “He’s one of the Redwolf’s personal guards. Look at his armor!”

  Vogel strode over to Brady, and wiped two fingers across his breastplate. Twin streaks of bright crimson shone through the dust and filth where General Vogel’s fingers had been.

  “My King and a few others escaped the wrath of the Westland sorcerer.” Brady swallowed hard, and pointed at the table.

  Vogel understood. He handed Brady the pewter goblet that he held in his hand. Brady downed it in one long swig.

  “Fetch water man! And bring the food,” Vogel ordered the nervous guard in the doorway. When he hesitated, and looked at General Chatta, Vogel added a sharp “Now!” to the command. The soldier disappeared to comply, and Brady continued.

  “King Jarrek ordered me to ride, and warn Dreen of Westland’s plan to march through the Wilder Mountains. Your King got out just in time. He went south to Stroud, I think. The Westland wizard blasted the red wall away, and then in the morning he raised the dead.”

  Brady looked at the two Generals in turn, trying to make them believe with his eyes.

  “They all march for the Westland wizard now. Westlanders and Valleyans alike. They’ve been a day behind me, maybe I gained a day, so it could be two now, but it matters not. They’re coming this way. I saw them cross the Southron River at the village called Tip, so I’m sure Kasta Keep fell as well. I – they are dead – walking, fighting dead men. I gave them warning, but they wouldn’t listen.”

  He fell to his knees, with the clank of his heavy plate armor. He was emotionally overwrought and exhausted. Tears streamed down his dirty face, and he sobbed.

  “I…I…I…did what I could…all I could do… What else…against the dead?”

  “Well, General Vogel,” General Chatta started, in a somewhat satisfied tone. “So much for pulling out to go save Dreen!”

  The next morning, the two Generals pondered what course to take. Over the night, Brady Culvert had escaped, stolen a fresh horse, and rode out toward Xwarda, leaving them to wonder about his tale. General Chatta suggested that it was a ruse, to stall their advance on Queen Willa’s palace city. Vogel sent out riders to see if an army was really coming from the west. In the meantime, he prepared his troops to make the long march back to Dreen.

  Brady had to knock-out a Seaward watchman as he snuck out of town. He hadn’t relished the idea of assaulting an unsuspecting common soldier, so he rationalized his actions any way he could. If the man had been doing his duty, Brady figured, he wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him in the first place. The knot on his head would remind him to be more vigilant when he was on guard.

  Brady figured that when the sun came up, and his absence was discovered, he would have an insurmountable lead on any pursuers that might try to follow. The ride to Xwarda would be a short one for a single mounted man. With his midnight start, he could be there before anybody even knew to look for him.

  He had eaten and rested, but not well on either count. He wouldn’t succumb to his exhaustion though, couldn’t succumb to it, until Queen Willa had been warned of the coming force. His hope was that King Jarrek would already be there. King Jarrek wouldn’t question his seemingly insane claim of an army of walking dead. They had to know that it wasn’t just Pael and Westland’s army coming. It was something far worse.

  Xwarda was the undead army’s destination, Brady was certain. Xwarda was the oldest city in all of the known Kingdoms. It had been the kingdom seat back when the kingdoms had all been one. He remembered from his lessons, something about a great magical force that embraced the place, but couldn’t remember the details. All he knew for certain was that if the Westland wizard took control of that ancient power, then the kingdoms were all probably doomed.

  Brady was so consumed with these dire thoughts, that he didn’t see the rope leap taught across his path. It caught him across the breast plate, and stopped his momentum cold, as his horse ran right out from under him. All he saw, before blackness consumed him, were the faces of other soldiers looking curiously down on him. He couldn’t tell where they were from. It was still too dark, and his head was swimming. He tried to raise his body up, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter who they were. Now no one would be able to warn Xwarda. He fought to pull air into his emptied lungs, but before he found out if he succeeded in drawing breath, he slipped into unconsciousness.

  The next morning, Pael collected his Blood Caps alone, and with some haste. As soon as he was satisfied with the weight of his basket, he went back to his little red castle with a crackling flourish and began preparing his concoction. He took special care to ward himself from the effects of the potent poisons he was combining with a deadly virus he had cultivated a few days earlier. Not only would his potion be lethal to all who ingested it, but its deadly effect would spread like wildfire among the rest of them. After a few hours, the virus would die out, but it would be too late by then: everyone in the Valleyan/Seaward encampment would already be dead.

  He methodically boiled, mixed, strained, and stirred, stopping every now and again, to read, and reread, the pages of the open book lying on the table. When he was finished with his concoction, he stoppered the vial of murky black liquid, shed his goat hide gloves and shimmered away.

  It was dark in the city of Plat, when Pael appeared behind a row of empty buildings, out of sight. Hundreds of campfires burned along the western portion of the city, and beyond its limits. Both armies were still here, and he was pleased. The more the merrier, he told himself, as he ran his hand down his front, turning his fancy black robes into coarse homespun rags.

  He pulled the hood up over his gleaming blue and green veined head. The top of his scalp had blistered when he’d taken the time to heal the Choska demon. The healing had lasted well into the afternoon, and Pael hadn’t thought to protect his head from the sun. Now, the rough material irritated the sunburn, and Pael growled at the pain. He had to force himself to tolerate the sensation, so that he might savor the moment at hand.

  He took his time strolling around the occupied city, and the many encampments at its fringes. He studied the siege engines, the catapults, and the boarding towers the Seawardsmen had pieced together and mounted to the tops of big horse-drawn carts. He estimated the numbers of horses and men as best as he could in the insufficient light of a hundred small fires.

  As he walked around, and gathered in all that would soon be under his control, he began to formulate his plans to the next level.

  He found the command post in a deserted building, and studied the displayed maps of Xwarda there. The city hadn’t changed in years, and Pael had to smile at the fact that a few of the little known ways into the walls, were on his own maps, but not on these.

  He then went, and found the building that was being used to heat the huge cauldrons of gruel that would be bucketed out to the different divisions of soldiers at sunrise. A handful of men, full of yawns and curses, went about stirring meal mix into the boiling water, cutting fruit, and readying eggs to be fried for the officers. The smell of baking bread f
illed the place, and oddly reminded Pael of a time when Shaella was but a baby. The memory was fleeting.

  The men didn’t seemed to notice him standing there watching them. He was far from invisible; he had only wanted himself to be unobtrusive to the eye of those that might pay attention to him. He trembled with glee as he dripped a few drops of his brew into each of the cauldrons. He had a strange moment of déjà vu, remembering how he had poisoned Glendar’s father’s goblet, but it was overridden by his deviant mirth.

  When the vial was empty, he tossed it aside, and began casting the spell that would reanimate those who died from his poison or the plague that it hosted. These undead soldiers would rise from the earth, whole and unwounded. No gaping gashes or broken armor for these undead troops, and what was more, they were already in position to take Xwarda for him.

  He sank into his work with fervor, and soon the casting was under way. He had already given Lord Brach his new orders. Brach would arrive, and assume command of this new set of battalions very soon. Pael had planned it so that he could concentrate his full focus, and sink all his power into the casting of the powerful dark spell that would raise these men after they died. He held back only enough power to transport himself to his warded bedchamber in the castle at Dreen.

  As he finished his casting, he shook his head in disbelief. The power of the demon Shokin that had come into him by luck, or maybe fate, had given him the tools to achieve his goals far sooner than he had ever expected to. He had grossly underestimated the number of troops he would find here in Plat. It was all he could do to fight away the giddy manic shivers that tried to course through him as he thought about the Wardstone. Soon, he would be able to wield endless amounts of raw natural power. With a mountain of Wardstone to fuel his desires, the giants, the dragons, and even the rest of demon kind, would be forced to kneel before him. It was with much pleasure that he finished his spell, and transported himself wearily back to Dreen, to recuperate from his exertion. By the time he woke from his slumber, his undead armies would be enjoined, and he would use them to take Xwarda for his own.