The Sword And The Dragon (87 page)

With a barefoot placed squarely at the back of the stump where Pael’s head had once rested, Mikahl pulled Ironspike out of the earth. The sword’s comforting blue glow resonated and pulsed in time with the angelic symphony of its power. He held the blade up, as they rode back through the scattering of soldiers who were piling up the rotting corpses, so that they could be carted out of the wasted city. 

Some men cheered his passing. Others fell to the ground in supplication. A few, even broke into tears, and thanked the gods for sending Pavreal’s heir to save them. Mikahl smiled at them, hoping to lift their spirits, but the expression was forced. There was far too much death and destruction around them for more than a glimmer of hope to reveal itself.

“A spark is all it takes to start a forest fire,” General Spyra said, reading Mikahl’s expression. 

His words had been spoken clearly, but so softly, that only Mikahl could hear them over the din. 

“You must be that spark for the people who survived this. If you’re patient, and help to lift Xwarda above all of this,” he gestured at the ruin around them with a broad sweep of his arm, “then I swear by all the gods of heaven and earth, that I’ll do everything that is in my power, to help you take back Westland when the time comes.”

Mikahl gave the man a curt nod, and stood high in his saddle, raising Ironspike up into the air. It was a small gesture, and one that served to bring another cheer from the soldiers in the streets. 

Once the refugees returned from wherever they were holed up or hiding, Mikahl didn’t think there would be much joy in this costly victory. The city had a putrid stench to it. He would have heaved and retched up bile had the sword’s magic not been in him. 

The wails and cries of wives and mothers would soon fill the air. The confusion of fatherless children, and the despair of the grieving, would permeate the area far worse than the rank smell of death that coated it now. He couldn’t muster more than a forced smile, but he kept it in place, and tried to carry himself as King Balton would have in the same situation.

When they passed through what was left of the castle gates, Mikahl saw the headless bulk of the Choska laying at the edge of the fountain lake, in front of the palace. He cringed, and wondered if Willa the Witch Queen would punish him for destroying her fountain display. 

He had heard, through countless stories told around the hearth fires of his youth, that Willa was a horrible and mean old woman. She supposedly had killed her father and mother to take the throne, and had lived for hundreds of years longer than any normal woman should have. She was said to feed her Blacksword soldiers the flesh of their enemies in a stew each year on Yule Day. 

An elderly Duchess once told Mikahl, that Willa the Witch had turned Duke Ramsis into a suckling pig, just for being rude. Mikahl didn’t believe much of what he heard, but Duke Ramsis sure did resemble an old hog the last time he had seen him back at Lakeside Castle. 

If the Queen of Highwander really was an old witch, Mikahl thought that she sure lived well. Even surrounded by ruin, the palace was spectacular; far nicer than the thatched roof huts the witches in the stories preferred. Still, he was nervous. Lord Gregory had explained that Queen Willa wasn’t all that different from King Balton. It was only rumor, distance, fear, and a few embellishing generations of exaggeration that had turned her into something so exotic and sinister. But the Lion Lord had added that most fables, no matter how absurd, contained a bit of truth to them. Mikahl had no idea what or who to expect. He had been on the edge of death the last time he came into the palace. He only hoped that he would find Hyden Hawk and the Great Wolves amongst the living.

The congregation of worn, and weary, yet obviously noble born folk, were gathered at the castle’s entry steps. Talon soared by Mikahl, and made a proud, screeching caw. What was that? Mikahl squinted to make sure he was seeing correctly. A bearded dwarf with breasts? He wasn’t sure what the hairy thing beside her was. The only distinguishing feature, besides the hair and short stature he could discern, was a bulbous red hunk of flesh that might have been a nose poking through the tangle.

There was also a big man, who stood out, in his well worn red plated armor. Mikahl immediately recognized him as one of the Red Wolf King of Wildermont’s Elite Guard, but then true recognition struck him. It was King Jarrek himself. 

Mikahl had stabled his horse once when he had come to Lakeside Castle for Prince Glendar’s Coming of Age gala. The lady soldier from the forest, where Grrr had sacrificed himself, was wearing a crown. Mikahl felt himself begin to tremble, and was glad he was sitting on a horse, for his legs would have surely betrayed his nervousness. 

The General brought the procession to a halt before the gathering. A steward ran out, and took the reins of the horse the General had provided Mikahl. As much as he didn’t want to, he was going to have to dismount. 

From somewhere behind the main group, a staff rang out on the stone, in a sharp triplet of resounding thumps. “Crack! Crack! Crack!” Then, an announcer stepped forward, and shouted out his introduction.

“I present Pavreal’s true heir, Mikahl Collum, the Slayer of Demons, and Dark Wizards, the Wielder of Errion Spightre, the Blessed High King, come to unite the realm again.”

The only thing more shocking to Mikahl than the sight of King Jarrek, and the crowned woman, whom he could only assume was Queen Willa the Witch, all bowing to him, was the appearance of the little fluttering blue pixie, who was hovering in midair, just over Queen Willa’s head. 

His state of disbelief only intensified, when Talon shrieked fiercely, and swooped down out of the sky towards them. The little blue pixie panicked, and darted into the cleavage of Queen Willa’s gown. A moment later, Talon landed gracefully atop the Choska’s corpse, and a cheer erupted from all around them. 

Mikahl smiled, and searched for Hyden Hawk, while brandishing Ironspike in the air for the people that were spilling forth from the castle. He wished that he could find some real joy in the moment. Perhaps if Vaegon, or Loudin, or Lord Gregory were here beside him, he might. 

A thick tear welled up in his eye, and rolled down his cheek. He needed to find Hyden, if only to remind himself that everything he cared about, hadn’t been lost while defeating Pael’s evil. The fact that he still hadn’t seen his friend, caused the lump in his throat to swell to the size of a fist. 

The memory of Vaegon’s torn body came to him, and threatened to overwhelm him. Luckily, the not so wicked Willa the Witch Queen saw the emotions playing out on his face. With Starkle the Pixie dangling by his wings from her hand, she hooked her arm into Mikahl’s, and led him into the castle, and away from the crowd.

Somewhere, out off of the Seaward coast, the insubstantial spirit of the wizard Pael, found its familiar, Inkling, still bound to Glendar’s submerged body. Starfish, crabs, and dozens of other mollusks, along with a few suckerfish, were cleaning the flesh from Glendar’s bones. Soon, only a skeleton would remain; a skeleton that was cursed to live on, hundreds of leagues down, at the bottom of the ocean. 

The pecking order of the three entities, which inhabited Glendar’s skeletal host, was quickly established. Glendar, ever weak-willed, and foolish, was pushed to the side, while Pael and his familiar, wrestled for control of the skeleton’s motor functions. Ironically, Inkling won the battle, and once the sea floor scavengers were shaken off, he started off in the direction that he hoped was north. 

He wasn’t concerned that he might be going the wrong way, with all of eternity to walk the ocean floor. He knew that, as long as they moved in the same direction, sooner or later, they would wander up out of the depths, back into the light of day. 

He would use all that time to ponder what he would do when he got there. In the meanwhile, Pael feebly plotted on how he could take back control of Glendar’s will from Inkling. Neither of them seemed to notice the strung out parade of other skeletons that were following them through the sea.

Lazing in the afternoon sun, with his feet dangling out over the open air of the marshlands, Hyden sat in the mouth of the Dragon Tooth Spire’s wormhole. 

Not three feet away from him, lay the old snapper bone his little brother had used to keep his rope off of the abrasive floor while he lowered out one of the dragon’s eggs. 

The dragon was telling him a story, a long and exciting tale, about a great blue drake, and a silver skull, that might be able to help him go into the Nethers to retrieve the ring Gerard had worn when he had escaped the dark wizard, and fled there. 

The dragon in the story had breath that was more like liquid lightning than fire, and was so big, that it had been able to snatch the ship of an infamous pirate, named Barnacle Bones, right up out of the water. Hyden was captivated by the dragon’s words. He loved a good story, and Claret was by far the best storyteller he had ever come across. The dragon was even better than Berda, the giantess, though he would never tell Berda that.

In his hand, he toyed with a crystallized, tear-shaped jewel that had fallen from the dragon’s huge eye, when she had spoken of the hopes she had held for all three of her un-hatched babies. The thumb sized crystal had started out like any other tear, but by the time it hit the floor, it had hardened into a diamond-like substance. Claret had told him that he could call her through the jewel, if he ever had need of her, and that it would act as a charm of protection, if he kept it with him throughout his travels. 

He told her that he would make a medallion out of it, and wear it always, not as a form of protection, but as reminder of the friendship that the two of them had formed. Claret loved the notion, and had let out a deep affectionate rumble, that was far more potent than, yet strangely similar to, a kitten’s purr.

Hyden told her about his brother and the old crone from the Summer’s Day Festival. She listened on, as he continued to explain the White Goddess of his people, and how she had told him that he would have to eventually go down into the depths of the Nethers, to retrieve the ring his brother had taken there. Claret had told him then, that fortunes and prophecy were not always set in stone, no matter how much we all wanted to believe them. And the ones that do come to pass never do so in the manner expected.

“For instance,” she hissed softly. “I once foretold a prophecy about the sword, called Errion Spightre, and Pavreal’s bloodline. I made it so that sooner or later, the folly of man would set into motion a chain of events that would undo the Pact that I had been forced to swear to. I only had my un-hatched eggs in mind when I did this.”

She paused, and yawned out a soft roiling cloud around her curled tongue. 

“Here I am, set free,” she continued. “But what I prophesied hasn’t come to pass. The youngest son of Pavreal’s line, didn’t take up the blade in place of the true king, to save the land from the legions of dark.”

She turned a huge yellow eye on Hyden, and studied him closely. 

“I believe that your goddess is correct, Hyden Hawk. That strange ring is on the finger of the wrong man. Only when it is in the right place, will the nature of prophecy be restored, so that what must come to pass can happen. I’m sorry that you are caught up in all of this. Thus, the nature of prophecy is proven to be faulty. For if you retrieve the ring, then what I portended, might come to pass. A greater evil than the demon-wizard Pael might come. And worse, one who I consider to be a friend will be forced to battle that evil. All I ever wanted was to keep my hatchlings from being mastered. Now, only one of them is left.”

“My father once told me to be careful of what I wish for, because I just might get it,” Hyden spoke kindly.

“Jussst so,” Claret agreed, with a nod of her big horned head. 

She then started back into the story about the huge blue dragon, named Cobalt, and the pirate who had stolen his hoard. The reason she told that particular story wasn’t lost on Hyden. The silver skull, which the pirate had stashed in the hold of his ship, could be used to cross between the earthly plane and darker places, like the Nethers. 

Hyden listened intently, and the troubles of his heart, and mind, were soon lost to the excitement of the clever pirate’s many ways of eluding the dragon and the kingdom ships that were endlessly after him, and of the dragon’s dogged persistence in retrieving his treasures. 

When the telling was done, Hyden grew excited and sad in equal measure. He couldn’t wait to get back to tell Vaegon and Mikahl about Claret. And the bond between him, and the hawkling was stretched so thin that it almost hurt. He was sad though, because he would miss Claret. The dragon was a powerful force to be close to. Next to her, he felt safe, and indestructible. He would miss her, there was no doubt. 

There was still the great flight back to Xwarda though, and since there wasn’t any hurry, Hyden hoped that he could get another story or two out of her. He knew that she would leave this part of the world, and go far away to hatch her remaining egg. He didn’t blame her for it. He was starting to see how even the most civilized of humans were barbaric in nature. If he were her, he would get as far away from mankind as the limits of the world would allow. She had promised to come if he called her. That would have to be enough.

The sky was cloudy, and a light chilly drizzle was falling on Xwarda, when the terrified cries of “Dragon! Dragon in the sky!” rang through the streets. 

Word spread through the castle, like a plague, and Mikahl wasted no time joining Queen Willa and King Jarrek on the long climb up the spiral stairs to the top of the Royal Tower.

Mikahl hadn’t taken the time to grab up Ironspike, and was the worse for it by the time he reached the top. 

Dugak was watching over the blade for him. Mikahl’s injuries were far from healed, and without the sword to fortify him, his breath came in ragged, noisy gasps, and his muscles burned, and ached. His spirit was lifted above his pain though, by the prospect of seeing Hyden Hawk again.

By the time Mikahl reached the rooftop, Claret had gone, but Hyden Hawk was there to greet him, with an overwhelmingly fierce hug.