Hyden wrestled Shaella from her seat, and shoved her from the dragon’s back. She landed in an awkward heap, still clutching her staff as if it held the world in its crystal headpiece. As soon as she gained her feet, she began to cast a spell, but Claret’s big horned head, and toothy maw curled around, and loomed in the darkness beside her, reminding her of the reality of her situation. The casting of her spell stopped immediately. It was all Shaella could do to keep from retching from the sulfuric stench of the dragon’s hot breath. To her credit, she showed no fear whatsoever, only furious indignation over what she had let happen.
“I’ll ask you only once,” Hyden said down to her. “If you tell the truth, I’ll leave you to your fate. If you lie to me, then Claret here will gladly roast far more than the rest of the hair from your head. Am I being clear?”
Shaella didn’t respond. She turned, and glared at Claret’s huge, unblinking yellow eye. She knew that, through the link of the collar, the dragon could tell Hyden anything it knew. She cursed herself for carelessly sharing her feelings with the beast. Then, with a scrunched up face, she looked back up at her lover’s older brother.
Her face was tight, and dark with emotion, save for the pale scar that ran down the one cheek like a tear drop.
“Is he alive?” Hyden asked. “Did you betray him? Did he go into that dark place? Is he still alive?”
Having Hyden place the blame on her, caused her to stiffen, but his brotherly concern for Gerard softened her resolve more than just a little bit. If she truly loved Gerard, or what was once Gerard, then she couldn’t lie to his flesh and blood about what had happen to him.
“The Gerard you know is dead, but I love what he is now, no less than I loved him before.” Her answer was no lie, and through Claret, Hyden knew it.
“What has he become, then?” Hyden didn’t understand.
“Ask the dragon,” answered Shaella coldly. “Between my father’s insane magic, and the effects of the dragon’s yolk, what’s left of Gerard is barely alive, and trapped in the Nethers.”
She turned then, and strode stiffly off into the darkness, wiping the tears from her face as she went.
Hyden had to stop Claret from blasting her with dragon’s fire. He wasn’t sure if it was the tears she had shed, the look in her eyes, or the knowledge of the depth of her love for Gerard, but he felt in his heart, that she had been truthful, and he didn’t want to kill her.
She truly had, and still did, love his little brother. Part of Hyden wanted to kill her, and if Mikahl ever recovered from his injuries, he would probably never forgive him for not doing so. But what’s a Dragon Queen without a dragon? There would be time to deal with her later. He was about to be forced to seal his brother into a blackened void full of demon kind, evil spirits, and all other manner of dark things. If Mikahl couldn’t understand the show of compassion, then so be it. Gerard had loved Shaella. Through Claret’s memory he had seen the last moments of his brother’s life. His brother had loved her as well. How could he possibly kill her?
As Claret lifted back into flight, Hyden tried to clear the mess from his head. He knew what he had to do when they got to the Seal. If he could figure out how to dissolve the Night Shard into the carved symbols, he would have to do it. There was no sense in tormenting himself over it. With a deep sadness gnawing at his heart, he closed his eyes, and sought out Talon’s vision.
Outside of the city’s innermost wall, the wall that protected the palace itself, the city of Xwarda was a smoldering ruin. The moonlight, the wavering illumination from the scores of burning structures, and the thick smell of rotting corpses, lent the place a hellish air. The shrill, repetitive call of a wyvern, and the horrific pleas of a dying man only added to that sense. It was no place for the living, and every man who still drew breath, was doing his best to retreat to the pseudo safety of the castle grounds.
All along the top of the castle’s defensive wall, men raced to and fro. Archers held off the undead, while groups of exhausted soldiers retreated in from the city to the castle grounds. The Highwander Magi used fire, smoke, and a plethora of illusions to confuse the dark enemy, so that as many men as possible could get inside the gates.
The castle’s wall remained intact, but it didn’t give the feel of safety to those behind it anymore. Their final defensive fortification was the oldest, and least formidable of the three protective walls that ringed Whitten Loch and the palace. The other two walls had not just been breached, but had been pulverized – leveled in some places. Everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before this wall fell as well.
From above, Queen Willa surveyed the destruction. She slowly walked the circumference of the tower roof, trailing a hand idly along the tops of the crenels. To the south, the battle raged on. She could see the tiny glints of firelight reflected from the swords and armor in the streets, and along the alleyways, between the castle’s wall, and what was left of the secondary wall. Any minute, those men would get the order she had just given to retreat to the inner grounds. She hoped they lived long enough to find a way back in.
To the east, the devastation of Pael’s meteoric fireball stood out amid the otherwise unharmed section of mercantile shops and residences. At the eastern gates of the inner wall, an isolated scuffle between a hulking boar-like beast and a knot of men was raging under the gate tower’s bright lanterns.
To the north, and west, large groups of the undead were gathering in the shadows thrown by the burning structures, and reorganizing their numbers. Just inside the secondary wall, to the south, the ruin was empty, save for a lone figure, robed in dirty white. Willa could barely make it out as a person.
He was standing in the center, of what was nothing more than a huge circle of rubble. Upon seeing this, Talon leapt from Willa’s shoulder, and with widespread wings, glided down through the air, away from the tower. The sudden action from the long still bird, startled the troubled Queen.
King Jarrek “harrumphed” his presence from the top of the stair landing. He had been standing a few steps down, inside the boxy shelter, for a few long minutes, so that he could catch his breath before engaging Queen Willa. After fighting in the field all morning, and tending to Brady Culvert in the afternoon, the long journey up the stairs had taken its toll on him. He wasn’t a young man. When she turned, and greeted him, with a tired, and obviously forced smile, his exhaustion was forgotten, and he was taken aback by her plain, natural beauty.
She was the first pleasant sight his eyes had fallen upon, in what seemed like forever. The vision of his mother, and his betrothed mangled in the collapsed ruin of the Ladies’ Tower, back in Castlemont, quickly erased any mirth or admiration he might have started to feel. He moved his eyes from hers quickly, lest she see the sorrow, and lack of hope he was suddenly feeling. His gaze landed on the cloak covered body, lying dead in the middle of the roof. He started to comment, but thought better of it
She understood his silence, and walked back to the southern facing edge of the parapet. She was relieved to see the men there fighting their way back towards the inner wall. Her orders had been received, and relayed. Seeing that the retreat had been called, she turned to Jarrek.
“The word is that you saved a lot of our men.”
He shook his head, as if he didn’t want to speak on the matter, as if it had been nothing.
“You’re calling them in, then?” he asked tactfully.
“Something like that.” She met his gaze.
“The hawk boy flew off on the dragon. He said that when he does whatever it is that he’s going to do, Pael will lose some of his demonic strength.”
She made a strange, deliberate face, and forced back the feelings of hope that were brewing as she spoke the words.
“He said to hold off Pael as long as we can.” She indicated the castle grounds around, and below them, with a sweep of her hand.
“We can hold out strongest here, where I can access the Wardstone. Spread out about the city, the wizard is picking us apart.”
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��You’re putting all of your eggs into a single basket,” Jarrek said, but not in any disapproving or judgmental way. “Does this ‘Hawk Boy’s’ word hold such merit?”
“I can only hope.” She turned to face away from him.
A sudden, blue radiance had caught her attention, out where the lone, white-robed figure had been standing.
“The power of the Wardstone is strong here, and I can…” Her voice cut off suddenly as she took in a sharp audible breath.
It was Mikahl. The sapphire glow was Ironspike’s blade, and the demon-wizard Pael had just appeared behind him.
“We were all destined to bow before that one,” said Willa absently, her attention held raptly on Mikahl.
“Aye,” Jarrek agreed.
He leaned out between two crenels, to get a better look, and cringed in horror, when he saw a swirling emerald column of wizard’s fire erupt, and consume Mikahl.
Pael fumed at the audacity of the idiot squire. How dare he call him out, as if he were just a drunkard at some piss poor tavern? Pael took his time, studied the situation, and the terrain, long and hard from afar, before he made his move.
He was too wise to be baited with mere insults. Was the boy even capable of setting a trap? he wondered. Was he using himself as bait? No. He was only an adolescent young man, driven by a need for vengeance, and blinded by youth, and inexperience. Pael let him sit, let him wonder, and wait. Pael let him relax and tire. He let the white-hot fire that had fueled Mikahl’s earlier rage die out. Then, and only then, did Pael attack.
With a crackling pop, Pael appeared a few paces behind Mikahl. He had the fool squire, and he knew it. He had the advantage of total surprise. He had the spell’s last word on the tip of his tongue, and Errion Spightre was still resting in its sheath on the boy’s back. He grinned, as he started to speak the final syllable that would cause wizard’s fire to consume the foolish bastard-born whelp, but suddenly, something he could never have accounted for, came tearing into his face.
The fluttering of wings, the screeching call of a bird of prey, and razor-sharp claws digging into his eyes, all combined to steal the word from Pael’s lips. The bright blue glow of Ironspike’s blade filled his other eye. He shrieked out in pain, and batted the hawkling from his face, with a brutal swipe of his hand. The pain was terrible, but through clenched teeth, he managed to get the word that released his spell, spoken. Warm liquid from his ruined eye ran down his face, as the squire was suddenly engulfed by his magical jade inferno.
The wizard’s fire erupted around Mikahl, hot and sticky, sizzling his robe, and his flesh, and through the sword, he called forth the melody of magical armor. Though it put a layer of protection between his skin, and the blaze, it didn’t keep the heat from affecting him.
Oh, how he was thankful for Talon’s intervention. Had the hawkling not bought him the time to draw the sword, he would have surely been charred to the bone by now. Hearing no obvious way to extinguish the fire in the symphony that raged in his mind, he simply stepped back, out of its confined radius. He was relieved that the bulk of the flames stayed where they were. Only small, dripping tendrils clung to his magical shell, and they were expiring as he moved around to meet the demon-wizard.
He was surprised to see the chunk of gore hanging from Pael’s eye socket. Talon had destroyed one eye, and several thick streaks of blood, trailed from the wizard cheeks, where they had been ripped open by Talon’s claws. Pael himself was seething. He blocked the sparkling swing of Ironspike’s blade, seemingly effortlessly, and then discharged a hot crimson pulse, directly into Mikahl’s chest.
Mikahl went stumbling backwards, his breath knocked out of his lungs, as if by a hammer blow. While he was reeling to catch his balance, he saw the wizard striding to kick at something. It was Talon. The bird was half stunned, and trying desperately to flap itself into the air, and unaware of the boot closing in on it. It sickened Mikahl to see it, and he called out a warning, but the gesture was futile. A clump of feathers swirling to the ground, where the bird had just been, was all he could see now. The look of satisfaction on Pael’s ruined face, confirmed that he hadn’t missed his target. As Mikahl regained his balance, another hot crimson blast came at him, then another. Once again, he was slammed full in the chest. It was all he could do, to keep a grip on his sword’s hilt as he was sent flailing backwards, by the powerful static pulses.
Hyden Hawk actually felt the swiping blow Pael had thrown to get Talon off of his face. It had stunned the bird’s vision, throwing Hyden back to his present situation on Claret’s sleek, undulating back. That glint of a vast body of water, reflecting the moonlight up from far beneath them, and the feel of the wind buffeting him caused a moment of panic, but he recovered. He had been so attuned to Talon’s senses while helping Mikahl that he had forgotten himself. He felt satisfied that Talon had done some real damage to the demon-wizard. He was also pleased, and relieved, that Mikahl was alive, and that his sword was alight with power.
What the foolish castle born goof had been doing, standing out there in the open, in nothing, but a filthy white robe, Hyden couldn’t understand. He shifted back into Talon’s vision, and saw nothing but flaring green rocks, and the wild shadows they cast. The hawkling’s mind was full of confusion. Then, he heard Mikahl’s voice calling out to him. Was it a warning? The impact of Pael’s hard leather boot, into Talon’s frail body, suddenly rocked Hyden so hard, that he nearly fell from the dragons back. Unconsciousness overtook him completely this time.
Through the link of the collars, Claret felt Hyden Hawk go limp. She pulled a wing stroke to keep him in his seat, and then put forth that much more effort to get them to her lair. She would do anything for Hyden, anything that she could, because, through the link of the collars, she had read his intentions, and she knew that as soon as this most important deed was finished, that he would take her collar off, and set her free. He hadn’t been lying to her. He would set her free, and once he did so, she could find a place far away from the reaches of man. There, she could make another nest, and finally hatch her remaining egg.
The castle’s protective walls, being not nearly as tall as the great outer walls had been, were quickly overtaken. The magi, even the novices and apprentices, cast spell after spell, creating barriers of thorn, or fire, to try and stop the undead soldiers, but it wasn’t enough. In a dozen, or more places, Pael’s rotting men were gaining the castle grounds in hordes. Even with the magnifying power of their proximity to the Wardstone to help fortify and intensify their spells, the dead came.
The soldiers of the Blacksword, fought tooth and nail to defend the castle though. They were relentless, and brave. Crowded in, and facing impossible numbers, they couldn’t win the advantage. For every undead that came over the wall, half a handful of Highwander men were killed, or injured.
Like maggots on the carcass of a rotting varmint, the dead army swarmed the breaches, and fought their way into the grounds. Queen Willa drew upon the power of the Wardstone, and sent silvery witch fire, and wicked blasts of static energy down upon them, but she could only do so much. Not only was she exhausted, but her own men were down there too, and she didn’t want to hurt them with her attacks. Through the trees of the forest park, from the roofs of the castle’s lower outbuildings, and around and even through the black blood stained waters of Whitten Loch, the undead came.
Eventually, they overtook the fierce Blacksword soldiers, and gained the castle’s entry. A sleek, black-scaled wyvern came soaring through the space where the depiction of Ironspike’s forging had once been. From the top of the Royal Tower, King Jarrek urged Queen Willa to come away, while she still could. She wouldn’t hear of it.
The screams of the people inside the castle were echoing up from below now. The wyvern was loose among them. It was all Willa could do to keep from collapsing in despair. She knew that if something didn’t happen soon, Xwarda was lost. And if Pael took Xwarda, it wouldn’t be long before he found a way to use the Wardstone. She was sworn to fight t
o protect the Wardstone to the end. She couldn’t leave, but she could at least send the thousands of people hiding in the tunnels below, on to Jenkanta, were they would at least have a chance to escape Pael’s wrath.
“Go,” she said to King Jarrek sternly. “The people who win free will need strong men to help them survive.”
“I cannot leave you here unguarded, lady,” he replied simply. “I will not.”
“You’re a chivalrous fool,” she told him. “Call down the order to evacuate the refugees then. Tell them to collapse the tunnels as they go.”
Chapter 58
Before Pael could hit him with another one of those bone jarring crimson pulses, Mikahl rolled, and twisted to his feet. He still had no breath in his lungs, and his head was spinning, but he knew that if he stood still, he was done for. Another hot red blast streaked toward him, and this time, he knocked it away with Ironspike’s blade, but he was still starting to panic. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for very long. His senses were already starting to fade into blackness. He needed air badly.
Pael sent another of his pulses. Mikahl tried to deflect this one with the sword, but his oxygen starved lack of coordination, made the attempt futile. The blast hit him, but it was only a searing graze, not a blunt impact. He was lucky. He would have taken the blow full on, had his body not involuntarily hiccupped, and sucked in a much needed gulp of air.
He couldn’t enjoy his body’s relief, because Pael was already blasting at him again. Twisting out of this missile’s way, Mikahl gulped in another breath, and charged the demon-wizard. Instead of relying on magic, he rode his instinct, and brought on a full-on physical assault with his sword. He slashed, spun, hacked, and thrust, leaving Pael no choice, but to forget his attack, and defend himself. The wizard could hardly keep the wicked steel from his flesh, much less mount an offense.
The Sword and the Dragon Page 66
