Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

“I knew it!” Phen blurted out excitedly. To his surprise and obvious disappointment, her yellow eyes filled with tears. She shoved him away as she jumped up and started off. After two steps, she stopped, turned around, and picked up Spike, who had tried to follow her.

“Why did she start crying? Why is she so upset?” Phen asked.

What Hyden thought was a boulder wiggled and unfolded into an over-bundled hairy dwarf.

“She’s a she,” Oarly said, before taking a pull from his flask. He offered it to Hyden, who refused, but Borg reached his big hand over and took it. It looked like a thimble between the giant’s fingers. “Woman folk, be they dwarves, humans, or even elves are peculiar at best. Give her a while to think. I’ll go talk to her for you after that.” Oarly reached up to take his flask back from Borg, who had squatted down among them.

Hyden had to laugh when Oarly shook the container and found it empty, then scowled up at the huge being. Borg returned his glare with a look that caused Oarly to blanch.

“I’ll fetch some more,” Oarly grumbled. “And a fargin bucket for ye to drink from,” he added under his breath.

Borg heard Oarly and belted out a deep belly laugh. After a moment he said to Phen, “The dwarf is right. Giant women are no different.”

Lieutenant Welch sat down nearby and began whetting his sword. “Aye. Is she really the Princess of the Elves?”

“Aye,” Hyden answered with a sigh.

“You’ve all gone mad then.”

News of Petar’s death, Commander Lyle’s reassignment, and the skeleton’s attack on O’Dakahn came to King Mikahl all in the same day. Cresson had made a sending to Master Wizard Sholt, who was currently on the Isle of Salazar with Lord Spyra, tracking down the men afflicted with Pael’s taint. He relayed the information to De’Rain, the young mage at Lakeside Castle.

Unlike Cresson, De’Rain wasn’t afraid to add his opinion to the messages he passed. He was so brazen that, when he first spoke to his king, Mikahl almost took offense. Luckily, Lady Able was there in the throne room when the news of Petar’s death was announced. Her intervention kept Mikahl from reacting rashly to the insensitive way the information was given. By the time De’Rain brought the news of the attack on O’Dakahn to the High King’s ears, the two of them had come to an understanding. The mage hadn’t known that Mikahl was fond of Petar, and Mikahl hadn’t known that De’Rain had been humiliated by Glendar on more than one occasion. The boy had later been forced by the Zard to use his magical skills to mend pots and make collars and harnesses for their four-legged geka mounts.

A lot of Westland folk were bitter. They had been overrun and forgotten while Mikahl fought beside King Jarrek to free the slaves from Ra’Gren. The people in the streets cheered for Mikahl, but he realized it was hope, not him, that they were calling out for.

It wasn’t until Mikahl finally drew Ironspike before the nobles and merchants crowded in his court that true hope began to set in. To a man, the room took a knee. No one had seen the power of the blade since King Balton sat on the throne. Due to Balton’s cunning, Glendar never once possessed it, and the Dragon Queen only carried her Spectral Staff. Mikahl settled Ironspike's blade into the display sleeve that was built into the throne at the end of the right armrest. He'd seen his father do this a thousand times, and he wasn’t surprised when the whole throne lit up with the blade’s humming blue power. The soft glow radiated a kind of promise not seen in Westland for years.

Mikahl had been fighting evil since he left the place, but something King Balton once said came to him: “Fear of the blade, and respect of its power, are far more potent weapons than the blade itself. The more you display Ironspike’s might, the less you will have to use it.” He thought about his father’s words as he told the people to rise.

The people in court had seemed uncertain about him, but they were swelled with confidence now.

“De’Rain,” Mikahl said softly. “Make a sending to our magister in O’Dakahn. Tell him that Commander Lyle is on his way and is to have full cooperation from all involved. A count of the skeletal remains should be made and the debris stored. All witnesses should be made available to the commander so that he can make a full, detailed report for me.”

Until that day, Mikahl’s stay in Westland had been filled with joy. Recollections from his early childhood came to him often and left him smiling. Queen Rosa was distracted from the places in the castle that caused her grief. Lady Able was pleasant, and the most capable of castellans. Rosa spent the days with the other ladies from the area, visiting in the great ladies’ hall. There, women sewed and played games, but mostly gossiped about one thing or another. Several of Westland’s strongholds were vacant, having been emptied by the Zard invaders. Aspiring noble-born and notable citizens were vying for lordships, and their wives pursued Rosa’s favor relentlessly. Lady Able managed to keep things civil, but rumors and dirty looks were sometimes more plentiful than smiles among the women.

Rosa loved it. She had been raised in Seaward City and was accustomed to the games the lesser nobility played. Her mother, Queen Rachel, had taught her well. She found and marked her place as queen quite easily. From there, she used all the tidbits of information Lady Trella had fed her. Knowledge of a secret affair by a lady who was portraying innocence, or the many secret rivalries and friendships that existed among the women, came in handy when judging who to trust, and in whom to only feign interest.

With Rosa busily occupied during the day, Mikahl decided to see off the Lord of Locar and his marsh patrol. The Zard who had taken the knee and chose to remain in Westland were vocal against this intrusion into their lands. King Mikahl told them quite civilly that it wasn’t their land. He was the High King of the realm. That included the marshlands. Many of the Zard found no love among the Westlanders they had once conquered anyway. Most of them had either fled back to the marshes or taken up residence around Lion Lake in the growing Zard community there.

The next morning, long before dawn, Mikahl kissed Rosa goodbye, and on the wings of the bright horse, he flew to Settsted. It was a sad sight to see the place where Lady Zasha had grown up in such a state of disrepair. The familiar smell of the marsh filled his nostrils and mingled with the smell of the boats and the refuse from yesterday’s catch. It all stirred up memories long forgotten.

Many a week he had been at Settsted, both as Lord Gregory’s squire, and then as King Balton’s. Lady Zasha’s father, Big Lord Ellrich, was the lord of Settsted then. Pael and King Glendar had emptied the outpost of men. Glendar did this because Pael told him to. Pael did it so that his daughter could lead the Zard out of the swamps and take over Westland with no resistance. Mikahl found that he had a bit of respect for Pael’s military planning skills. Had the wizard not gone mad with demon power, he most likely would have succeeded in conquering the realm.

Mikahl landed the bright horse near the ruined wall that faced the marshes. He was struck by a particularly fond memory.

Lady Zasha had been Mikahl’s first love, and a friend since childhood. In his teen years he had fished with her from the docks while his liege and her father hunted dactyls in the marsh. By all rights, Settsted Stronghold should go to her and her new husband, Wyndall. They currently lived on the Isle of Salazar. They owned the Lost Lion Inn and were instrumental in harboring refugees during the Zard occupation. Zasha had just given birth, Mikahl had heard. He knew she would refuse the position, but he would make the offer to them anyway. They had found happiness, and Zasha did not want her husband to be duty bound to anyone but her. Mikahl had to respect that. He could make the offer to no other, though, until after she formally refused her birthright. There was no doubt that the place would have to have a lord soon. His plan to reestablish a constant marshland patrol demanded it.