Michael Mathias - The Wizard and the Warlord

He pulled himself back into the wormhole, brimming with frustrated anger and feeling the fatigue of not eating for several days. With a growl of determination he gathered up a pile of fist-sized pieces of rock, placed them near the edge of the wormhole and resumed his position. He held the dragon gun loosely with one hand and with the other threw one of the rocks down into the nearest flock. Just as he hoped, the dactyl roosting there leapt from the cliff face into panicked flight. Three of them flapped out away from the rock, squawking in distress, then after circling around a moment, they returned to their nest. None of them flew close enough for Bzorch to loose a shaft at, but it gave him hope. After all, he had quite a few rocks to throw, and sooner or later one of the agitated dactyls would make the mistake of getting too close.

After he threw the third rock, several of the creatures went fluttering away. They all came extremely close and Bzorch took a chance. His arms had grown tired and he missed, but the prospect of a well-needed meal, and the rush of nearly having one on the end of his line, kept him from giving up. Finally, about halfway through his second pile of rocks, when the moon was high overhead and bathing the fang in an eerie yellow light, Bzorch shafted one of them. Like hauling down a kite in a gale, he pulled the loud, screaming swamp bird into the wormhole. Once the flopping, flapping creature was inside, Bzorch got hold of its neck and snapped it. During the struggle the dactyl managed to slice Bzorch’s chest open with its razor-sharp beak. At that moment the breed giant didn’t care. Using his bare hands, he ripped open the reptilian bird’s leathery hide and devoured its bloody flesh. When his hunger was sated, he recoiled his rope, and rewound the dragon gun. After that, he leaned back against the rocky wall and waited for the moon to get low so that he could start his climb down through the dactyl roosts.

When the time came, it was as black as pitch outside. The sun would reach the horizon in the east soon and set the dactyls off on their morning tirade of noise. Bzorch hoped to be well among them when it started.

He put the coil of line over one shoulder, instead of across his body, and he used a bit of the line to sling the dragon gun over the other. The wound on his chest had stopped bleeding, but he knew the freshness of it would attract predators once he was in the water. Since there was land at the southern base of the fang, he decided to ease that way as he descended. He still hadn’t decided whether he would try to kill the Choska or not. He remembered vowing to pike its head at the gates of O’Dakahn where it had killed all of those people. He didn’t want to break his word, but the short-haired Dragon Queen down there was probably a greater issue. Since he had a wound that would make him little more than bait in the marshes, he was weighing the matter in his head as he started down the rock face in the dark.

He climbed to his right as much as possible while moving down the rock face. As he went, he considered his chances of surviving the swamp. He wasn’t afraid of pain or death, only of failing his people and his king. What would King Mikahl do when Bzorch told him about the Choska and its rider? Probably send another party into the marshes to hunt them down. The way his men had been devoured by the denizens of this fiend-infested swamp was something he would never forget. In a matter of moments, the entire party of three hundred men had been eliminated. Even the barges were gone, either resting at the bottom of the swamp, or being overgrown by the thick vegetation. The next group would meet the same sort of fate. The Choska, or the woman who so eerily resembled that bitch Shaella, had retaken control of the life out here.

A thunder of wings, accompanied by a horrendous screech, startled Bzorch out of his reverie. He had descended into the roost and a glance upward told him that he had made thrice the progress easing to the south that he had downward. Clinging to the rock face, he held still, waiting to see if the dactyls would become aggressive toward his trespass. He was glad to find that, while they screeched and flapped in protest, they didn’t attack.

As he continued downward, still easing to the south as he went, a few of the bigger dactyls did become aggressive. He was forced to hold himself to the wall like an insect traveling the trunk of a tree full of hungry birds. As big as the dactyls were, even a larger one with a twelve- or thirteen-foot wingspan couldn’t hope to pull him off the wall. He was just too big. They could, however, pick and lash at his exposed back with their long, sharp beaks. And they did.

The harassment didn’t last long, and didn’t do any serious damage, but Bzorch felt fresh blood trickling down his back and knew that he had no chance in the water. The sky was lightening and the dactyls were filling the morning with a fever-pitched racket. Bzorch had to hurry and he knew it. He kept moving as much to his right as he did down. Another dactyl pecked at him as he found a shelf wide enough for him to stand and rest on. He threw a wild, battering blow at its head and connected. The stunned creature went semi-limp and half-glided, half-twirled down into the swamp. Its fall reminded Bzorch of a big leaf floating to the forest floor. In the light of early morning, yet still in the shadow of the fang, he watched the swamp bird splash down into a grassy shallow. He wasn’t surprised a moment later when an explosion of water erupted around the flailing form. After that, it was gone.

Seeing that he’d moved far enough south that he could climb down the rock face and step off onto land, he began to gather hope. When he started the descent, he didn’t see the Choska and its beautiful rider as it swept down at him from above.

The Warlord was disturbed by the size of the raid on his lair. Since the demons he called on had their minions devour the two groups with such cold and brutal efficiency, he was pleased, though. The fact that men had come in such a force meant that they knew how serious a threat was here. He had to act.

He decided that he didn’t need to wait out the winter. The spies and informants who served his hell-bound horde had informed them about the realm’s lax state. No one was afraid, no one was on guard, save for at the city of Xwarda where the precious Wardstone was. He knew he didn’t have to take the whole city to get it. The destruction would come after he used Shaella’s form to access the stuff and tear down the boundary.

To open the remaining seals, all he needed was for Shaella to place her hand on the Wardstone. All he had to do was to get her into Xwarda and before the stuff. He knew that the city’s forces were guarding it against armies and demons, not flawlessly beautiful women. Once, he had used her to open the seals, then he, and as many demons that could fit through, would come into the world and show the defenders of Xwarda just how foolish they were to believe that they could stave off the might of the Warlord and his legions. He wouldn’t be able to render the boundaries between the world of men and the Nethers impotent, though, until he gained access to the Wardstone in his own form. With an army of demons to distract the foolish people of Xwarda, he didn’t figure it would be hard. It would be as easy as killing the foolish Wedjakin that he was watching climb down toward his lair. Shaella’s head shook as the Warlord was in full control of her body. Had the half-beast not realized that he had been spotted long ago? The Warlord’s thoughts were disdainful. Men were ignorant and arrogant, and though these man-beasts were brutal, they were driven by instinct, and easily distracted.

The Choska needed food for the long flight to Xwarda they were about to undertake. What a perfect meal, the Warlord decided.