The Sword and the Dragon

by M. R. Mathias

  As his mind drifted from horror to horror, Jarrek stared absently at the dark clouds rolling down from the Giant Mountains to the north of them. A light drizzle fell now, but the downpour was coming. He could feel it in his weary bones. The storm mimicked his mood all too well, and the precipitation hid the occasional tear that trailed down his cheek. They would be in the thick of the lower Evermore soon. The forest would offer at least some protection from the coming weather.

  King Jarrek, his three remaining red armored guardsmen, the Highwander wizard Targon, and two cavalrymen made up the party. The cavalrymen were nothing more than glorified bridge guards, who had probably fled at the first sign of attack. Jarrek couldn’t be angry with them for it though. After all, what was he doing?

  The group had crossed out of Wildermont and somehow managed to escape the Westlanders’ pursuit. They had made it into the fringes of the Evermore Forest, where it touches the northern tip of the Wilder Mountains and borders the Leif Greyn Valley.

  For days, they had ridden up and over rocky ridges, then down through thickly forested valleys. Up and down, over and over again, until finally, they were about to put the hills behind them. They were now descending the last un-forested hillock and about to enter the thick of the Evermore Forest.

  Targon had tried desperately to get word to his Queen of what had transpired, but it wasn’t yet to be. He had drained himself so completely when he’d made the tunnel-like tube through the fabric of the world to save the King of Wildermont, that he was only now, days later, beginning to look alive again. Jarrek had thought that the man would die. At first, Targon had looked like a corpse. If he hadn’t insisted on coming with them, Jarrek might have left him in one of the mountain villages that they had passed recently. The wizard’s intense desire to share his ramblings of demon might and broken bindings with his Queen, and the simple fact that Jarrek wouldn’t deny a man who had saved his life anything, had kept him from it.

  King Jarrek wasn’t sure he wanted to meet with the Witch Queen. She was rumored to be a strange and powerful woman, who had lived for hundreds of years. Just thinking about the unnatural mess of it made Jarrek shiver.

  He doubted that most of the tales were true. Targon had told him that they weren’t; that she wasn’t really an old witch, and that she would most likely help them in any way she could. But who could trust the ramblings of a half dead wizard. The remoteness of her kingdom, and the strange ways of the people who ventured out of it, lent to the spooky image of Highwander, like butter lends flavor to bread.

  King Jarrek’s practical side knew that the place, however magical and mystical in nature, was once the seat of all the human lands. The palace in the city of Xwarda was ancient, and had once been the home of many of the realm’s heroes and legends.

  Targon didn’t have to defend his Queen, or the Kingdom she ruled over. King Jarrek most likely wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him. As a man of honor, Jarrek would dutifully repay his debt by escorting the man any where he wished ago. What could a Witch Queen do to him compared to what King Glendar and Pael had already done? She couldn’t be as bad as rumors would have one believe. Maybe she would lend him enough men that he could ride to Dakahn and try to free some of the people Glendar had sent into slavery there. It was a big hope, but enough to keep him from sinking into the gloom and sorrow that threatened to consume him.

  The rain was coming down hard now, but the end of the storm was in sight. To the north, along the tailing edge of the black swirling clouds, was a golden line of sunshine. A few days of clear blue sky seemed to be pushing the storm southward. Another dark line was on the horizon, beyond the expanse of blue. It was no surprise. In the heat of summer, storm after raging storm came rolling down out of the Giant Mountains. His only realistic hope, was that the sun would still be in the sky when the rain finally passed over them so that they might dry out before nightfall. A glance ahead of them, reminded Jarrek that they would be entering the forest soon. The sun wouldn’t be able to penetrate that canopy, he knew. The sun would heat the soggy woods like a steam bath. He decided that he wouldn’t even begin to look forward to dry clothes until they had a fire raging.

  The wyvern’s first swooping attack was so smoothly carried out, that no one in the procession even noticed the cavalryman in the rear being clawed out of his saddle, and hurled to his death. The rumble of distant thunder, and the chink and jangle of the horses plodding along on the heavy earth, masked what sound the steady thrum of the rain on their steel plated armor didn’t drown out. The wyvern’s second attack wasn’t so successful – though it might have been, had its first victim’s horse not whinnied out in fright and confusion.

  The noise brought Jarrek’s head around. A dark flash of movement caught his eye, just as the wyvern’s claw clamped down on his shoulder plate. He couldn’t do more than avoid the beast’s other claw, but the fact that he was looking in the right place at that moment saved him from having his face ripped off. Such was the force of the wyvern’s momentum, that Jarrek was unhorsed. He fell from the creature’s grasp, and landed heavily in the sloppy mud. Captain Proct, of the King’s Honor Guard, snatched up the reins of Jarrek’s horse, and began calling out orders.

  “Hargh and you!” he pointed at the remaining cavalrymen. “Get the wizard into the forest! Now!” He paused, seeing his King struggling to get to his feet in the slippery mud. “Markeen, help me cover the King!”

  The edge of the tree line was just a good hard gallop away. The red armored King’s Guard, Hargh, had already snatched the reins out of Targon’s hands, while the terrified bridge guard spurred his horse ahead of them towards the trees. The fact that he separated himself from the others so quickly cost him.

  The wyvern came thumping down on heavy wings, directly in front of the man’s horse. The horse rose up, and lashed out with its hooves, but the toothy maw of the black-scaled terror shot past them like a striking viper. The horse and rider fell, the animal thrashing in its death throes as it did so. Half of its neck and throat was already being chugged down the wyvern’s long snaky gullet. The man screamed again, as the horse’s body crushed his leg, but the sound was drowned out by the thundering storm.

  Hargh led the wizard swiftly towards the forest, in a route than arced around the feeding creature. Captain Proct took a chance, and deftly strung up the bow he’d taken from an abandoned shop at High Crossing. He knew the gut string wouldn’t hold its tension long in the rain, but he hoped to get at least two or three arrows loosed before it stretched and was wasted.

  In a move that surprised everyone, the wyvern left the screaming bridge guard pinned under his horse, and darted across the muddy ground towards Hargh and Targon. Its hind claws sent up great splashes of dirty water as it threw back its wings, and dove in for a headlong attack.

  Hargh slapped Targon’s horse in the rump with the flat of his blade, and then came around with his sword held high. The wizard was carried out of harm’s way. Hargh’s steel met black scales, while razor sharp claws came ripping upward. The man’s sword bit deeply, nearly severing one of the wyvern’s fore-claws, but its other claw, caught Hargh under the chin. Hargh’s jaw was nearly torn from his face and his helmet went spinning through the air, slinging strands of water at odd angles through the downpour.

  Black acid-blood spurted from the wyvern’s wound across red armor and horseflesh. Then, the wyvern took two steps back, shrunk in on itself like a compressed coil, and leapt into flight directly at Hargh. As it passed over him, it used its hind claws to rake him out of his saddle. A corrosive hiss, and a small trail of smoke trailed up through the rain, from his writhing body, as it crashed back into the earth.

  Captain Proct loosed an arrow at the beast. Then, as quickly as a man in full armor could manage, he sent another. The second struck the wyvern near where one of its wings joined its body. The creature roared out in pain, and the long, snaky thing veered clearly to one side in its flight. The wyvern roared again, as it tried to alter its new course with
its injured wing. It did no good. The creature came crashing into the wet earth in a tumbling flailing splash.

  Hargh’s wild-eyed horse went screaming and bucking towards the trees. The cool rain was no comfort to its burning, dissolving hide. Already, a large swathe of its flesh was corroding away where the wyvern’s blood had splashed it. It didn’t look like the animal would suffer much longer.

  King Jarrek, and the other red-armored guardsman, Markeen, went charging towards the struggling wyvern with their swords held high, hoping to kill it before it regained its senses.

  Captain Proct checked the tension on the bow string. He almost regretted that it was still holding true. He put an arrow to his string and rode swiftly over to the writhing, growling body of his longtime friend. Hargh’s face was a misshapen, acid-eaten ruin, and Proct mercifully put an arrow through the man’s breastplate into his heart.

  Just as King Jarrek and Markeen gained the wyvern, it rose up onto its hind legs. One of its wings was folded in naturally, but the other was half open, and twisted skyward. It scrambled forward at the approaching men, snapping its teeth and hissing. The wyvern’s one good fore claw was raised to defend itself. The other dangled uselessly from a small thickness of bloody sinew.

  “I thought I’d never wish to see a pike again!” King Jarrek yelled, letting his memory of King Glendar’s beheadings fuel his courage and anger.

  Wishing he had one of Glendar’s pikes now, he broke away from Markeen, and started around the creature’s right side.

  “Go around it, Markeen, so it can’t see us both at the same time!”

  Markeen did as he was ordered, and was rewarded for it by a jarring crack across the side of his helmet by the wyvern’s thick tail. The force of the blow nearly knocked him from his horse. For a long moment, all he could see was blackness, filled with tiny exploding stars. In a berserk rage, he shook it off, and went charging in at the creature.

  His sword made hard, slashing arcs. His horse stopped and started, as Markeen’s knees commanded, but it balked and hopped when the wyvern’s tail came sweeping back across the ground. Markeen landed a solid blow, slicing a deep gash in the beast. The blade would have done massive amounts of damage, had the stumbling motion of his horse not carried them both away from it. It was a stroke of luck that the destrier had faltered, because the wyvern’s jaws came striking round, and snapped shut with an audible crack, exactly where Markeen’s head had just been.

  King Jarrek, not one to go into a reckless battle rage, spurred his mount in close enough so that he might thrust into the wyvern’s body deeply. The thing was focused on Markeen, and paying little mind to where he was, so Jarrek took advantage. His attack was thwarted by the beast’s broken wing, as it came around, and nearly clipped him from his horse. It was then that Jarrek heard the Highwander wizard’s voice screaming out hoarsely.

  “Away! Get away from it!”

  Targon, on foot, with a growing sphere of magical blue force in his hands, was half stumbling, half charging from the tree line. No sooner had Jarrek reined his horse away and got clear of the thing, than a bright, sizzling sapphire crackle came streaking from the wizard’s hands like a shooting star. The blast went right into the wyvern’s side and exploded. A head sized chunk of its meat and bone was blown into an acid mist. By then, both King Jarrek and Markeen were spurring themselves towards Targon at a full gallop.

  Seeing that his companions were finally out of his way, Captain Proct let another arrow fly, but his effort seemed pointless when Targon sent two more of his wicked blue blasts at the thing. The last magical blow, hit the wyvern in the side of its viper-like head. Upon impact, skull, scale, and a grayish black mass of bloody muck splattered to the ground with a sizzling hiss. A moment later, the long sinuous neck and body fell sputtering and twitching into the mud.

  Exhausted, and half dazed, Targon crumpled to the grass where he stood. Captain Proct raced over to see to him. King Jarrek dismounted and ordered Markeen to follow suit. They took a long time inspecting each other’s armor for damage.

  The King’s breastplate had been splattered, and when Markeen tried to wipe it clean with a piece of blanket, the red enamel, and a thin layer of gritty steel smeared across it.

  Jarrek’s plate mail had been crafted generations ago, and was far lighter than it appeared to be. Apparently, it was still semi-resistant to the wyvern’s acid blood, because Hargh’s armor was eaten completely through. The smear left on Jarrek’s breast plate resembled a streaking fireball, but the integrity of the armor seemed intact.

  Luckily for Markeen, whose armor was of the same make and material as Hargh’s, his was free of the corrosive stuff altogether.

  Once Jarrek saw the tip of Markeen’s blade, he was glad that he hadn’t stabbed the wyvern with his. Like his armor, the sword called, Wolf’s Fang, had been passed down from King to Prince, for generations. It wouldn’t do to have an arm’s length of its tip eaten away like Markeen’s sword.

  “Was it a dragon, Highness?” Markeen asked his King.

  Jarrek told him no, but further explanation was cut off by the wizard’s weak voice calling for him. The captain had run down Targon’s horse, and had gotten the spell-weary man back in the saddle. He was leading the slumped over wizard towards the others.

  “Hellborn Wyvern,” Targon rasped to them. He wiped some rain from his face and looked at King Jarrek sternly. “It is a creature of brimstone, which until recently was banished behind Pavreal’s Seal.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t have the strength.

  “Say a prayer for our countrymen,” Jarrek ordered. “There’s no time to bury them. We have to get into the forest. We’ll be safer there. We’re about ten days out of Highwander, and I, for one, don’t want to wait around and see what else is lingering about out here.”

  Maybe it was guilt, or maybe Jarrek just had to say it, but when he was back on his horse, he spoke clearly.

  “They would understand and forgive us.”

  After a few moments of silent reverence, Captain Proct barked out an order.

  “Salvage what supplies you can from the Bridge Guards, Markeen.” He pointed at both the fallen cavalrymen. “I’ll go see where Hargh’s horse fell, and get what’s worth saving from it.”

  The rain seemed to be falling harder now, and the line of golden sunshine Jarrek had spotted earlier was nowhere to be found. He and Targon waited at the tree line for the other two to finish pilfering the dead. In any another situation, Jarrek wouldn’t have allowed such sacrilege, but the food, wine skins, and other necessities that might be stashed away in those packs couldn’t be left behind. They had a long ride ahead of them, through one of the most formidable forests the gods had ever created. Anything that might help them get through was welcome at this point, no matter how it had to be acquired.

  The soldier who had been unhorsed and killed before the wyvern had announced itself properly, had a sword that Markeen gladly took up. The same man’s horse was found by Captain Proct and used as a pack animal to carry the blankets and other gear that they gathered from their fallen comrades. They had enough rations now to go a few days without being forced to hunt. This was a small comfort, after all the death and destruction they had seen, and survived over the last few days, but a comfort, nonetheless. It meant that they could make haste, and put some distance between themselves, and all the horror. The further into the forest they went, the better. Or so they hoped.

  Strangely enough, the rain slacked off and then stopped right after they entered the Evermore. It was late in the day and they were spared, for that evening at least, the miserable humidity that the sun would eventually draw out of the soaked woods. They traveled long into the night before sadness and exhaustion forced them to make camp. When they finally did, King Jarrek looked long and hard at the weak and sickly form of the Witch Queen’s wizard. He couldn’t help but feel squeamish about going to Xwarda, but there was no way he could doubt Targon anymore. Twice now the Highwander wizard had saved h
is skin in the heat of battle. If that didn’t warrant his complete trust, he didn’t know what did.

  As King Jarrek drifted off into a wary sleep, his mind and heart went out to the thousands and thousands of his people that King Glendar had sent to Dakahn to be used as slaves. Just the chance that Queen Willa might aid him in rescuing them was enough for him to feel a spark of hope. He was glad for it, because that tiny spark was all he had.

  Chapter 42

  Grrr, the biggest of the four Great Wolves, the stern and serious pack-leader, carried Hyden Hawk. Oof, the fearless, carried Mikahl. Huffa, the fastest of the four, and the only female in the bunch, carried Vaegon, and Urp, with only his lighter burden of packs to carry, ran circles around them all.

  Through the mountains and the foothills, the wolves had been able to keep a strong and steady pace, but as they went deeper into the Evermore Forest, and further out of the cooler, higher altitudes, the heat began to take its toll on them.

  The companions wisely began making camp in the later part of the morning and sleeping away the heat of the day. This schedule went far towards helping the wolves cope with the climate, and they appreciated the men for their consideration. The wolves showed their thanks, by sharing the meat they hunted with them, and by keeping their keen eyes and ears open for possible dangers along the way. It had been a long time since any of the companions had eaten so well, and so often.

  The wolves worked up a ferocious appetite carrying them, and they made off to hunt at every break, save for their regular midnight water stop. Now, it was late afternoon, and all of the wolves, except for Grrr, who attentively stood guard over the camp, were off to find a meal.

  They had been camped in the same place for two days now, patiently waiting for the elf. The spot wasn’t quite a clearing – it was more of an opening in the dense forest, an area with just enough room between the tree trunks for them to stretch out and build a fire. Even during the heat of the day, they were shaded by the emerald canopy of oak, elm and poplar. Only a few rays of sunshine dared to penetrate through the leaves, and those were long gone now, as the unseen sun was getting lower in the sky.