The Sword And The Dragon (62 page)

That night was rainy and dim, which was all the better for their cause. Wyndall, and Bryant, the Settsted rider, huddled in the drizzle, the precipitation doing little to ease their nerves. The summer nights weren’t much cooler than the sweltering days around the lake. The rain though, did keep the insects away, and that alone was enough to be thankful for. Not to mention the fact that it made the two young men nearly impossible to see.

“There it is,” Bryant whispered harshly. A lantern was shuttered twice in a row in the stronghold’s kitchen window.

“I see it,” Wyndall confirmed. He took a deep breath, and checked to see that the rusty sword he had found hanging in old man Gander’s barn was still at his hip. “Set them off then.”

“I’ll see you at the boat, Wyn,” said Bryant. His eyes held Wyndall’s, searching for something. “You’ll wait for me won’t you?”

Wyndall smiled reassuringly. He understood Bryant’s concern.

“On my word, I’ll wait until we can wait no longer. That’s all I can swear to.”

“Aye,” was all Bryant could reply to that.

Wyndall waited until Bryant was gone, then he said a prayer. When he finished, he made the sign for luck, and moved toward a little supply gate at the rear of the stronghold. He counted thirty paces from it, along the wall to the right, and after a panicky moment of searching, found the tiny wooden door hidden there. A few moments later, he had the old rusty sword slid through the jamb, and was jimmying the bar loose. 

Just as the Lion Lord’s ancient priest, who had died in the cellar cell next to him had told him, he found himself in the back of the stronghold’s chapel.

Outside the main gate, four men draped in cloaks made of burlap and goat hide, approached on jury-rigged stilts, howling, snuffling, and demanding entry. They growled, yelled, and pounded wooden clubs together insistently, trying to make as much racket as possible. 

The Sarzard on command stood atop the wall and hissed at them. 

“Comesss closersss.” 

He was terrified of these breed giants that had defied the Dragon Queen’s orders, but he wanted to see how many of them there were. He wanted to see if the rumors were true, about them being twice the size of men. The Zardmen that had recently returned from Lakeside Castle had all been saying all sorts of things about the ferocious creatures they had seen there. The whole stronghold was astir. Already, a group of Zard was gathering in the yard, below the Sarzard Captain, making a clamor. Some of them had been ordered there. Others came out of curiosity and concern.

“Wilds savages at the gates,” a Zardman hissed.

“The ones from Portsmouths, that ates all those humans,” added another.

“Breeeds giants from Lakesides!”

The whole ordeal lasted only a few minutes. The savage breed giants cursed about the drenching rain, and finally gave up, when it was clear that the gate wasn’t going to be opened for them. They stalked away into the rainy darkness, leaving the Zards inside the walls hissing a breath of relief.

“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.

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.