Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

The Zardess that shaved Queen Shaella’s head escorted her, naked and glistening wet, into the circle of flames. Even hairless, the sight of her made Eopeck’s loins burn. Her full breasts and the perfect curve of her hip were undeniable to his eyes. It was no wonder Kraw’s host had loved this woman when he was alive. She was so captivating that he had to fight to keep his mind on the task at hand.

A glance at the moon told him that it was time. Another Zardess joined the first, and they led Shaella over to the cypress altar. Eopeck strode out of the circle to the cage that held the heavily beaten elf and his foolish monk companion. With a grin full of malice he jabbed his dagger into the elf’s arm and squeezed dark blue blood into a fluted silver goblet.

“You will pay for this,” Corva whispered through his broken teeth. “I swear it.”

“I may pay for it, elf,” Eopeck snarled back through his dark, pointed beard. “But it won’t be this night.”

King Mikahl saw the Choska circling over the ring of torches and had no choice but to land the bright horse a good distance away. The pegasus, due to its magical flaming nature, glowed brightly, making a stealthy approach at night virtually impossible. Ironspike’s own pale bluish glow was a little easier to hide. He had learned a trick from Phen, of all people. A long, thick, velvet sock slipped over the blade kept it from being seen while it was drawn, at least until he grew angry. Then, the white-hot blaze of the razored steel responding to his mood would burn the concealing material away. He wasn’t angry at the moment. He was too busy trying to creep up on the circle of torches. Through Ironspike’s magical symphony, he shielded himself and camouflaged his movements as best as possible. He wished he had Phen’s ring, or at least someone with him to draw the attention of all the Zard lingering out beyond the reach of the torchlight.

As if the gods were granting his wish, a monstrous splash came from the far side of the ceremony grounds. Instantly, the Zard and the Choska began moving that way. Seeing his chance, Mikahl ran in a half crouch toward the torchlit area. A block-shaped structure cast the only available shadow for him to hide behind. When he got closer he saw that the structure was an elevated crate-like cage with two men huddled inside. A wheelless horse wagon is what Mikahl decided it was, and now he saw it had pontoons lashed to the frame. The prisoners were kept off the marsh floor, above the water, so that the snakes and other crawly things wouldn’t devour them before they served their purpose. They were surely sacrifices, just as the bald woman lying on the altar was. There was another huge splash, followed by a demonic roar, and the hissing speech of several Zard-men came from across the way. The noise continued as whatever had come too close to the light was violently subdued. Mikahl used the moment to get right under the cart. The quiet rasp of a short repeating prayer came to his ears.

“Can you hear me?” Mikahl whispered. He noticed that one of the men in the cage was intently watching the red-robed priest and his strange ceremony. The other was a monk. The woman on the altar drank from a silver goblet, and now the priest was moving the glowing staff back and forth over her body while chanting. A symbol on the wooden altar was glowing where its shallowly-carved groove had been filled with blue liquid. Mikahl’s voice almost made the man yell out, it startled him so much.

“Are you injured?” Mikahl asked quickly.

“Very,” the startled prisoner answered, glancing at the monk curiously.

The monk’s prayer was so simple. “Come save us, Lord, save us so we can find Telgra.” Over and over again he kept repeating the mantra. Corva looked at Mikahl sadly. “Too injured to fight, or even walk away from here.”

“Can you fight when you are healthy?” Mikahl asked. “Are you trained?”

Beyond them in the firelight, the priest carried on like a madman.

“I’m trained,” Corva answered. “But my friend is just a holy man from Salaya.”

“I’m going to touch you with my blade. Don’t be alarmed. It will heal you, hopefully enough to flee. Mikahl took a deep breath, trying to think. “Follow the shadow of this cage. Keep on going. The marsh is shallow enough for a long way. I have to get that staff away from that priest.”

“Come on then,” Corva said, shaking Dostin out of his prayer. “Be ready to run, my friend.”

“When I draw this cover from my blade, I will be revealed, so move quickly,” Mikahl told them.

With a flourish he pulled the sock off of Ironspike. Its soft blue glow filled the immediate area and startled away a fifteen-foot snapper that had crept up out of the high grass. Immediately Mikahl touched the flat of the blade to Dostin’s hand. Magic pulsed into the monk. Almost instantly he was alert and rubbing at his arms with unabashed awe on his face.

Hissing shouts erupted from nearby.

“Now you,” Mikahl said. “Hurry.”

“I’ll take the priest,” Corva said as he touched Ironspike. “You go for the staff.”

The power of the pulse that shot into this one was so violent it even jolted Mikahl. The high king stood stunned for a moment from the shock. He suddenly realized that Corva wasn’t human.

“Elven blood, elven magic,” Corva explained simply.

Mikahl cut through the wrist-thick wooden poles as if they were butter.

“Run, Dostin,” Corva urged. He started toward the wide-eyed priest at a dead run, narrowly ducking a spear thrown by a Zard-man as he went.

Mikahl didn’t wait around either. He charged toward the priest as well. His only concern at the moment was the staff. Even as a hot scarlet ray streaked out of it at him, he ran full speed toward it. The magical shield Ironspike provided absorbed the brunt of the blast. Mikahl didn’t even miss a step.

Eopeck was so close to finishing the ceremony that the intrusion cut off the final words of his prayer. Had he not recognized Ironspike’s glow he might have finished instead of turning, but he was wise enough to know that the High King couldn’t be disregarded. He sent a sizzling kinetic blast at Mikahl and swept the staff like a club at the charging elf. The impact of the spectral orb on the elf’s skull caused the most unexpected thing to happen. The powerful crystal orb exploded, shattering into several pieces. Eopeck, in his sudden realization of terror, cried out the last words of his prayer as the power of the orb dissipated into the night. The staff fell from Eopeck’s grasp; the elf’s momentum carried his unconscious weight to Eopeck and both went tumbling over the wooden altar. Three bodies went flailing in a tangle right out of the torchlit circle.

Mikahl caught the staff in his left hand before it even hit the muddy ground. He whirled back toward the Zard-men pursuing him and swung Ironspike wildly. The Zard nearest him fell in two bloody pieces and the one behind it decided to launch his pike instead of getting into the range of Mikahl’s blade. It missed.

Beyond the Zard, Mikahl saw the damnedest thing. The chubby, balding monk had taken up one of the cage poles and was clobbering a trio of Zard swordsmen. Chunks of meat and scale flew everywhere as the staff-like weapon spun and struck true again and again. A fist-sized black eye caved in, and then a clatter of teeth sprayed out with a mist of blood.

So much for the monk being incapable, Mikahl thought.

A woman’s cry, a scream full of sheer terror, from behind him caused Mikahl’s attention to turn. He whirled around just in time to see the red-robed priest being dragged out of the torchlight by a huge snapper. The look in the man’s eyes and his pain-filled yells brought a smile to Mikahl’s face.

From not very far away in the darkness a demon’s howl split the night. The sound was accompanied by a woman’s gasping and gurgling. Mikahl knew it was the Choska demon. He charged over to defend the unconscious elf. He knew the sound of the demon well. A Choska had killed Grrr in the Evermore Forest. The same Choska had later killed Vaegon in the Battle of Xwarda. It had nearly killed Mikahl, too.