Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

From above them, a few dozen young men, all looking quite similar with their long black hair, tan skin, and crude leather clothing, appeared out of nowhere. They were all laughing.

Just then, the screeching caw of a hawkling filled the air. Talon, his feathers as white as Phen’s skin, swept by them. The bird circled sharply and came flapping down onto Phen’s head. After folding his wings in and pumping out his chest proudly, the bird looked at Telgra and cooed.

“By Doon, get it off me,” Oarly was yelling. “It’s fargin got me!”

A younger version of Hyden Hawk wiggled his way out of the shagmar skull and hopped up to his feet. He looked around at all the tense faces nervously. When his eyes found Lord Gregory, he grinned broadly, showing a row of bright white teeth.

“Well met, Little Con,” Lord Gregory laughed. “You might want to clear off a ways. That dwarf is dangerous when he is agitated.”

The boy glanced at Oarly, who was finding his way out from under the huge shagmar skull. Little Con grimaced, then bolted up the nearest hillside.

The tension evaporated and everybody quit laughing, save for one. Up on the hill, a lone voice was guffawing madly. Phen turned to see Hyden Skyler huddled up in the grass, holding his stomach. After a few moments of this, Oarly shouted out indignantly. “It’s over, man! You fargin got me. It’s not that funny anymore.”

“No, Oarly, it’s not you,” Hyden said, pushing his long black hair out of his face with one hand as he pointed with the other. “It’s not you I'm laughing at anymore.” Hyden struggled to his feet while still holding his stomach. “This is the first time I’ve gotten to see Marble Boy.”

“That’s not funny, Hyden,” Phen yelled. And again, everybody, even Lady Telgra, had to chuckle.

High King Mikahl felt the chill of the approaching winter as he flew on the back of the bright horse. The magical pegasus carried him over the brown farm lands of central Dakahn, then out over the deep emerald triangle of the marshes. Queen Rosa hadn’t been happy about him leaving on some dangerous errand on the day of their departure, but he’d come anyway.

“Westland is your homeland, Mikahl,” she said. “If we were going to Seaward to winter with my people, would you like it if I ran off and left you to travel alone?”

No I wouldn’t, he told himself. “There is a threat to the realm, my love,” he told her. “I have to go.”

“No, you don’t!” she yelled. “You have thousands of soldiers, six kingdoms’ worth at your command. You should send them to investigate and handle the threat. This is what they are for.”

What she said made sense to Mikahl. He’d been raised a squire, and he depended heavily on people like Lord Gregory, King Jarrek, and Queen Willa to help him make his decisions, but none of them were at hand for this one.

“I’m the only one who can get there in a few hours. I’m the one with the power of Ironspike at my command. Please try to understand.”

“I understand that if you don’t stay around long enough to make an heir, the sword will be useless for the future generations of men.” She began to cry then. As other emotions overcame her anger she sobbed. “If you die, the whole realm will lose the protective power of the sword. And beyond that, I will miss you so terribly. I can’t… can’t…” Her voice was lost in her tears.

Mikahl waited until her sorrow subsided. “Love and duty do not mix well,” she said as she wiped away her tears. Then she kissed him goodbye and went about preparing for the departure as if the whole scene hadn’t just taken place.

Mikahl was left feeling small. He saw the dark, fang-shaped spire rising up out of the jungly swamp and refocused his attention. He had to bank south to keep it in front of him. It rose about four hundred feet above the soupy mess of shallow swampland. A few mud islands supported the thicker groves of some tall, willowy trees, and a vast plethora of reptilian, amphibian, and avian life forms.

From the north or south, the “dragon’s fang” appeared to be about eighty paces wide at its base. It tapered up to a perfect point and had a slight curve to it, so that it truly did resemble some sort of fang. The history books said it was once a mountain that used to spit fire and flaming rocks into the air, but time and the powerful flow of the Leif Greyn River wore it down to what it was now. From the east or west, Mikahl thought it looked like a shark’s fin cutting through the swamp. There was a giant worm hole about midway up that went completely through the fin. Inside the worm hole, Mikahl knew it opened up into a cavern. Claret used to live there, before Hyden set her free.

Mikahl figured that a Choska, or a pack of hellcats, had moved in, or maybe a marsh witch had gotten hold of some old spell books and was dabbling with forces that were drawing the skeletons in. He also decided that Rosa was right. He shouldn’t risk his life until the protection of Ironspike’s magic was guaranteed to reach beyond his life. He decided he would only investigate, and then make a decision about what needed to be done. A few breed giants with their dragon guns could take out a Choska demon without the aid of magic. Add a capable mage and a few hundred men with well-equipped marsh boats and they should be able to easily handle the mess. There was no need to risk his life fighting the realm’s battles by himself. Rosa’s comments about the future of the land had sunk in. If he died, there would be no one of Pavreal’s bloodline left to ignite Ironspike’s power.

As the Dragon Tooth Spire loomed larger before him, he was thinking about spending the winter at Lakeside Castle with Queen Rosa, trying to make an heir. The sudden burst of a flock of dactyls taking flight startled him. The big birds had a ten-foot wingspan and razor-sharp beaks as long as a man’s forearm. These were smaller than most dactyls, but there were hundreds of them. A great cloud of thumping wings exploded out from the nooks and crannies near the lower part of the black rock formation. He was forced to go around them in an arcing loop so that he came at the worm hole from the side. He’d never seen so many birds at once, and he suddenly realized the damage that a flock could achieve if they acted in concert. Without a thought, he drew Ironspike and called forth all the shields that its power could generate.

He was surprised when he guided the bright horse into one side of the opening. The cavern beyond was relatively empty-just old bones as big as he was littered the place. Pieces left from Claret’s many meals, he figured. He wondered how the dragon had stayed sane living in the jagged black cavern for so many centuries. He imagined the diet of snappers, geka lizards, and other marsh creatures had grown old as well.

The bright horse faded away as Mikahl stepped around and over the loose scree to the opposite mouth of the wormhole. He looked down. The dragon couldn’t have ever gone hungry, he decided. Even with his average human eyes he could see at least four huge snappers floating like logs in the grassy pools below. He also spied a camp. A Zard camp. At first this alarmed him, but then he realized that the Zard had to have gone somewhere when Bzorch and his breed giants ran them out of Westland. There looked to be about a dozen of them going about everyday things, like cooking and building. They weren’t planning to march back into Westland, that was clear.

He went back to the other side of the wormhole and scanned the marshes below; more snappers lying in the evening sun, a few more Zard, two of them stalking something with spears, or maybe gigs. Then Mikahl saw two Zard-men hauling what looked to be a struggling, half-rotted man toward a huge, boiling cauldron.