The Wizard and the Warlord wt-3

by Michael Robb Mathias

  Lord Gregory made it back to the wagons. Each had only a single horse to pull it now, but they were empty, so it was a manageable task. The three drivers were also soldiers, men King Mikahl had picked from the ranks because of their ability to drive the wagons. There was no perceived threat between the foothills and Dreen, but with demons still loose in the world, the High King made it clear that he wasn’t taking any chances.

  Lord Gregory chose to ride in his saddle. The hard board seats weren’t very kind to his old body. The weather lessened the further south they went. When the tall, needle-like spire came into view ahead of them it was the afternoon of the second day. The snow was so light that it wasn’t even noticeable, but an icy mist had blanketed the Leif Greyn Valley. Visibility was limited as they moved through it, and they were almost to the base of the spire before they saw Corva and Dostin standing there nervously.

  Lord Gregory dismounted and strode over to the face of the monolith, where his name was carved. He hadn’t met them yet, but he knew without a doubt who they were.

  “She is important to our people, my lord,” Corva said. “Far more important than I can explain.”

  “She doesn’t want to be bothered at this time,” Lord Gregory told them. “I know who Princess Telgra is. The problem is that they have already moved on from where I left them. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell you where they have gone.”

  “The Queen Mother won’t understand the kingdom’s lack of cooperation in finding her daughter,” Corva explained. “I do not know how that will affect our already shaky relationship.”

  “Your queen should understand lack of cooperation extremely well.” Lord Gregory’s tone had a bit of bite to it. “The princess is safe, I can promise you that. Men from the village where we parted ways are already on their way into the Evermore. That is all I can say.”

  “Is your name really on there?” Dostin asked stupidly.

  “Yes, it is.” Lord Gregory pointed to the script. “Here.”

  Dostin eased up close and squinted at the carved letters. He spoke aloud as he read. “Lord Alvin Gregory, Lord of the West, victorious over Sir Willmont Baylor of Valleya in the Brawl.”

  “The princess was under my protection,” Corva said to Lord Gregory with the proper amount of respect in his voice. “If you don’t tell me, I’ll just follow your tracks to where you came from. It is my duty.”

  Lord Gregory nodded and shook his head. The elf’s sincerity, and good intent, was radiating from him. “You’d better hurry along then,” he said evenly. “It’s snowing in the foothills.”

  Corva nodded then unexpectedly extended his hand up to the Lion Lord. “Thank you, my lord. Come now, Dostin, we must make time.”

  Lord Gregory watched after them, but after only a moment they were lost in the icy mist. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know what would happen when the monk and the elf entered the clan village. The snow wasn’t deep enough to obscure his trail completely. If the elf could track at all, he would find the Skylers. If the two of them managed to survive that, then maybe they could find Hyden and the others. He decided that it wouldn’t be a bad thing if that happened. What King Mikahl had said about the monk’s fighting ability, and the elf’s determination to carry out his duty, meant they could probably help Phen and the others succeed.

  Lord Gregory also found that he didn’t want to think about what would happen if the quest failed. If Princess Telgra didn’t return with her memory, or worse, didn’t return at all, then the friction between the humans and the elves would surely turn volatile.

  Chapter 27

  King Mikahl sat jostling in the opulently decorated royal carriage. Queen Rosa and her attendant, a girl named Allysan, sat across from him, giggling and pointing out the window at the soldiers surrounding them. Their three-hour-long discussion of a green dress they were going to make had numbed his mind completely. The huge procession was far slower than anyone had hoped it to be. They had been traveling five days and were just now coming out of the Wilder Mountains into Castlemont. Mikahl wanted desperately to be riding Windfoot out in the open, away from the silly women, their shrill outbursts, and their whispery secrets.

  Once they were inside the thick canvas pavilion tent that was erected for them each night, Rosa became his world, and he hers. During the day, though, he felt as if he were being tortured. Rosa had begun rigorously working on creating an heir when they were alone, but during the day she was so prim and proper, and sometimes downright silly, that he couldn’t stand it. He was hoping that King Jarrek would appear soon so that he could excuse himself from her company without offense and get some air.

  The queen’s mirth slowly faded to silence as the edge of Pael’s destruction came into view. She had seen Castlemont after its destruction, but it never ceased to be overwhelming. Even with thousands of men, dwarves, and a few dozen breed giants working nonstop to rebuild the wreckage, the magnitude of devastation was chilling.

  Mikahl chose not to look. He wanted to see the reconstruction and the new bridge at Locar. He wanted to find hope in Wildermont. Out here in the outskirts there was little of it.

  Allysan pointed out of the window at something. As Queen Rosa wiped a stray tear from her cheek a smile spread across her beautiful face. It was such a wonderful smile that Mikahl was forced to look to find what caused it.

  Up on a gently rolling hillside, a pair of very young boys were running along a fence line, skipping and pointing down at the royal procession as they went. Another boy was ahead of them. This one appeared a little older and was shooing sheep out of the way so they could keep up. Higher up the hill, a woman stood before a cottage, smiling and waving down at them. Smoke rolled up from the chimney and clothes whipped in the breeze along the line where they had been pinned. Mikahl noticed that there was no man in sight, and that the stack of chopped wood beside the house was nearly exhausted.

  He glanced ahead of them. The next property was a ruin. It had been larger, probably once a lord’s manor by the looks of the jagged pile of rubble and charred timbers. Mikahl could imagine Pael’s army, actually Glendar’s army, occupying the place while their troops marched past toward Dreen. They’d probably torched the place. Once the beams were burned through, it had crumbled. Out here, Pael hadn’t bothered to wreak havoc personally. This destruction was from the Westland men Glendar had recruited. Mikahl could see some of Pael’s magical destruction further ahead, though. From the procession’s vantage point in the hills, a good view of Castlemont Proper spread out before them. It looked as if a mountainous foot had just stepped down out of the clouds and crushed everything under it. A long line of leveled terrain lay where one of the gigantic towers had fallen.

  Mikahl was about to pull his eyes away when he noticed a clump of buildings rising up out of the mess. They were new, and even from the distance, he could see the majestic quality of the dwarves’ construction: arched entryways, high, peaked corner towers, and steep tiled roofs decorated the cluster of two- and three-story constructions. A single tower rose up over them proudly.

  Upon further inspection, Mikahl saw other buildings at various stages of completion scattered about the city.

  He found himself feeling better about things. Rosa must have noticed his shift in mood because she reached over and squeezed his hand. He glanced at her and felt himself flooded with love. She was silly at times, but at others she was quite astonishing, both as a woman, and as a friend. Considering their marriage was brought about over a political need, he knew that he could not have done better. It was rare in such unions to find that both people could love each other.

  Mikahl gave her a sparkling smile. He knew how lucky he was to have her, even if she sometimes drove him crazy.

  “Oh look, Mik,” she said, following Allysan’s pointing finger. “It’s King Jarrek. He has called up a formal greeting party to escort us to his castle.”

  Mikahl grinned. He hadn’t seen Jarrek in a few months and was anxious to be in the company of his old friend. “M
y lady,” Mikahl said through his grin, “King Jarrek’s castle is only a pile of rocks. They will probably escort us to an outlying stronghold within the city’s wall.”

  “We can stay at our pavilion, for all I’m concerned,” Rosa said with a blush. “Lately, it’s become one of my more favorite places to be.”

  Allysan giggled and whispered something, causing Rosa to giggle as well. Mikahl found his cheeks blooming with heat too. He was never more thankful than when the carriage came to a stop and one of the commanders knocked politely on the door.

  “High King Mikahl, King Jarrek has invited Your Highness to join him,” the man said after the door had been opened. “If it pleases, he would like to give you a personal tour of the progress. Your horse has been readied. I’m to apologize to my lady, for the roads in most areas are not suitable for the carriage.”

  Mikahl looked at his wife askance.

  “Go on, Mikahl.” She smiled. “I’ll see you soon enough.”

  “Thank you, Rosa,” he said as he hurried out to find Windfoot.

  A few hours later, he and King Jarrek rode side by side through the heart of Castlemont. The score of men escorting them were spread out so that the two could speak privately.

  “Under Diamondeen, the dwarves have done wonders,” Jarrek was saying. “They are using blocks and materials from the destroyed buildings to construct the newer ones. It saves us from having to haul so much debris out of the city.”

  “Who will be their next king?” Mikahl asked. The former king of the dwarves had died fighting to free Jarrek’s people from Ra’Gren’s slavery. The dwarves, newly returned to the realm, had gravitated toward Castlemont and Oktin, where their service as stone workers was needed most. King Mikahl hadn’t received much news about them in Dreen, for King Jarrek was as busy as a man could be.

  “It’s hard to say,” Jarrek answered. “It’s something that will be done below in one of the underground cities. I’m sure they will choose well, though.”

  “How has our Lord Bzorch been faring?”

  King Jarrek barked out a laugh. “You should see the new bridge. Well, you will see it when you cross it in the morning. He is a fair enough bridge master and I don’t think any other breed giant in the pack could keep the rest under control as well as he does.” Jarrek cringed. “I would sure hate to be Ra’Gren.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Oh yes.” King Jarrek made an elaborate circular gesture with his arm. “When he and the remaining overlords aren’t pulling Bzorch around in his cart, the Lord of Locar has them chained to a giant gear wheel that turns the dwarves’ millstones.”

  “Do you think we are wrong torturing Ra’Gren that way?” Mikahl asked. “It seems sometimes that we are no better than him by doing so.”

  “No, sir.” Jarrek’s voice was stern. “Ra’Gren and his overlords enslaved tens of thousands, and killed thousands of innocents, just to entertain themselves.” The Red Wolf’s tone grew heated as he spoke. “If they were to live a thousand years smoldering on a bed of hot coals, they wouldn’t have suffered enough.”

  It was King Jarrek’s turn to enquire then, and the two men spoke for a long time about Queen Willa, Queen Rosa, and plans for the realm. Mikahl told him of Hyden’s quest and the progress at Oktin. That night King Jarrek held a feast in their honor and once again swore his fealty to High King Mikahl and the might of Ironspike.

  Mikahl had told him of his concerns about the marshes and the threats the Zard might pose. After the main course was devoured, the Red Wolf announced that men would be sent immediately into Dakahn to help organize a marsh patrol similar to Westland’s.

  Rumors of a riverboat full of Wildermont steel being pirated on its way down to O’Dakahn took on a new light. Mikahl’s proposed marsh patrol would make it all but impossible for pirates to thrive along either channel of the Leif Greyn River. The nobles and the other folk in attendance at the feast were excited about the news. Such protection from thievery would benefit every merchant, smith, and bargeman in the realm. Soon that talk died away. A lute-playing bard, accompanied by a harpist, filled the hall with bright, uplifting song. Most of the gatherers moved to the courtyard where the musicians were joined by a large, hairless woman’s angelic voice. Even though it was cold enough to see one’s breath, a blanket of hope and promise warmed the hearts of all.

  The next afternoon, after sleeping as late as possible, Mikahl received word from King Jarrek that he would be busy in the city and regretted not being able to see him off. The Red Wolf did promise to visit him in Westland soon. It was common knowledge that King Jarrek spent his days out in the rubble and dust hauling debris or stacking stone blocks with the other laborers. He was one with his people, and since Pael had torn the heart out of his kingdom, he sweated, strained, and even bled the love back into his land. Mikahl admired his resolve. Like Hyden and Phen, he was one of the realm’s greatest heroes. King Mikahl felt lucky to know him.

  Locar was only an hour’s ride from Castlemont on horseback, but with the huge escort of soldiers and the seven-wagon train, it took most of the morning to get there. Bzorch, the Lord of Locar, waited on the Westland side of the newly repaired span. He was huge and imposing sitting in his wagon cart behind a team of well-muscled, but broken-looking, men.

  Mikahl had grown frustrated and exited the royal carriage to inspect the bridge from his horse. Only one lane was complete, but another would be done by winter. The dwarves and breed giants were using the old columns that jutted up out of the Leif Greyn River to build them all, but they were using newly mined granite out of the Wilder Mountains to add onto them. Mikahl estimated that it would be spring, and spring again, before the entire five-lane bridge was restored to its former magnificence.

  As Mikahl approached Bzorch, the breed giant climbed out of his cart and took a knee. Seeing that he was still nearly at eye level with Mikahl, even though he was still mounted, Bzorch lowered his head even more. Mikahl couldn’t help but note the amount of respect the alpha breed was showing him. Their relationship was held civil by the thinnest of strands. Bzorch had led breed giants against Westlanders and against Mikahl’s father, King Balton, at Coldfrost. Mikahl had been there, but only as a squire. The Dragon Queen had given him his title, but Bzorch betrayed her in order to do what was best for his people. The breed giant and his huge crossbow-like dragon guns had helped win the day at the Battle of O’Dakahn.

  “Lord Bzorch,” Mikahl said, seeing that King Ra’Gren and his once fat overlords looked healthy in the chains that held them to Bzorch’s cart. Mikahl smiled at something he remembered Jarrek saying earlier.

  “Well met, Lord of Locar,” Mikahl said as Bzorch stood up.

  Windfoot whinnied and pranced nervously back. Bzorch, easily ten feet tall and as wide as a set of double doors, grinned down at his king. He wore no shirt, only horsehide britches and shin-high boots. Studded leather gauntlets strained around his meaty forearms, and one of his serving-tray sized pectoral muscles jumped as he spread an arm out in invitation.

  “Welcome home, High King Mikahl,” he boomed. “We have been awaiting your return most anxiously.”

  Ra’Gren, once the wealthiest king in the realm, snorted a laugh of disgust from his place at the front of the wagon harness.

  Even to Mikahl, Bzorch’s words sounded strange. Not so many years ago the breed giants had feasted on the flesh of men and women under his father’s protection. Mikahl realized, though, that Bzorch had probably practiced the words all morning. He looked away and his eyes met Ra’Gren’s. Before he could stop himself, he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into the dirt.

  “You’ve done well with the bridge, Lord Bzorch.” He held Ra’Grens gaze as he spoke. “You should fatten up your wagon team and make them into a stew.”

  Ra’Gren paled and looked away. Bzorch laughed low and loud. “I would have eaten the bastards long ago, King Mikahl, but there’s no one left in the realm despicable enough to replace them.”

  Mikahl no
dded agreement, but in the back of his mind he was thinking about Lord Vidian, the tyrant from Weir. He was quite sure that Queen Willa would amend the man’s punishment and send him to Locar.

  “I’ve got orders for some of your men,” Mikahl said as he reined Windfoot out of the way of the royal procession that was just now filing its way across the bridge. “I would like a dozen of your dragon gunners, with ropemen and whatever else they need to operate. I would have them in Xwarda before full winter sets in. Queen Willa and General Escott will assign them from there. Pick a few of your folk, the more civil of them, to establish an embassy there. Once that’s done, a rotation can be set so that no one has to stay for too long.”

  Bzorch’s smile looked more like a snarl but his eyes showed that he was pleased his people were needed in such a way. “I can have them moving in two days’ time.”

  “Good.” Mikahl nodded. The awkward tension between them was beginning to ease. “Also, the Zard and a Choska may be stirring up trouble at the Dragon’s Tooth Spire.” Mikahl noticed the breed giant’s grin growing broader on his ape-like face. “I’ll be sending a few hundred men on barges to investigate. I would like it if you could send a handful of your less civil kin, and a few dragon guns with them, as well.”