Michael Mathias - The Sword and the Dragon

Mikahl patted Windfoot to reassure him, but he wasn’t sure of anything himself. He urged the horse forward a little bit, so that they were still in the trees but could see the majority of the clearing. The pond’s surface had stilled and the birds were returning to their roosts in the nearby trees. The pack horse was trotting aimlessly in an arcing circle. If it weren’t so close to the water, Mikahl thought he might try to chance going after it. Instead, he started whistling and calling for the animal from where he was.

His eyes were eventually drawn to the strangest thing. A tree, or log, was slowly breaking the surface of the pond. It was rising up, end-wise, like a pillar. As with the trunk still lying by the water’s edge, it was stripped of all its limbs. It was rising up so slowly, that it made no ripples whatsoever on the surface of the pond. It was like some giant prayer totem, slowly thrusting itself up to the gods. Two small branches began lifting up from its sides. At the end of each branch, was a cluster of smaller limbs that looked like claws. Mikahl rubbed his eyes and blinked. They were claws. The thing was sticking up out of the water nearly twenty feet now. Before Mikahl could discern any more detail, it dove with viper-like speed out into the clearing and at the unsuspecting pack horse as it came back around toward the water.

The tree trunk lying on the shore jerked forward with the huge creature’s lurch. Mikahl realized that the monster was somehow leashed to it when, like a dog hitting the end of its tether, its jaws snapped shut just short of its target. A great, pink maw slowly opened up, revealing rows of finger long pointed teeth. Then, a flickering, forked tongue shot forth, but the pack horse managed to buck and leap out of its way. The creature wasn’t finished though. It hissed and lashed its tongue out again. This time, its tongue wrapped around the horse’s neck. The packhorse reared, twisted, and tried to get away, but it was no use. The giant lizard-like monster was already pulling it towards its slavering mouth.

Without even stopping to think about what he was doing, Mikahl drew his sword, and spurred Windfoot out into the clearing at a full gallop.

The wizard, Pael, had been in the service of Westland for twenty-five years, which was exactly how long Prince Glendar had been alive. Pael had arrived on the day of Glendar’s birth, and with his clever magic, he made his way through Lakeside Castle all the way to the Queen’s bedchamber. Once there, he snuffed out her life like an old tallow candle while baby Glendar was still suckling at her breast.

Pael began raising Glendar, playing the caring, motherly role in the boy’s life. When he was schooled, Pael was there. When he was hurt, Pael was there. When he needed comfort, or support, or just a pat on the back, Pael was there. Slowly, and seemingly effortlessly, the wizard molded Glendar to his will.

It wasn’t hard. King Balton was busy with the ever quarreling eastern kingdoms, or off hunting with Lord Gregory and Lord Ellrich. None of the kings and queens of the east seemed to remember the wars, or even the generations of hope and peace that had followed them. It seemed that every kingdom, save for Westland, was growing discontent with its boundaries, or the trade agreements that had been long established. Some rulers were bold enough to check the strength of their neighbors. Defenses were tested, weaknesses were exploited, and alliances were formed. It had been that way all of Glendar’s life, and that was good for Pael. Pael had a grand plan, and he was patient. Some would say that he was as patient as an age.

“But, Master Wizard Pael,” Glendar said coolly, from his recently deceased father’s throne. “The sword is the power of the kingdom.”

“In symbol only,” Pael lied. “It’s no matter, Ironspike will soon be recovered, my Prince.”

“It’s your Highness!” Glendar corrected, a little more forcefully than he had intended to. “I am the King now, Pael.”

The wizard had found him sitting on the throne this morning, about to call court. It was ridiculous. Until now, Pael had kept his anger in check, but no longer.

In a flourish of black robes, the wizard flashed from in front of the throne, to directly behind it. His chalky white bald head pressed against the side of the throne, and his hot chemical breath found Glendar’s startled ear.

“You’ll be the King when I say you can be King, boy!” His voice was full of malice and power. “On the morrow, you’ll bury your father with tears in your eyes. The day after that, I will let you take the crown.”

Pael was already moving around the throne and down the three steps in front of it. He appeared to glide, as if under his floor length robes his feet and legs weren’t moving at all. At the bottom of the steps, he turned and looked back up at the brooding Prince.

“After all that is done Glendar, you may then be my King.”

A dismissive wave of Pael’s hands kept Glendar from catching the dual meaning in his last statement.

“We have more pressing business Glendar.” Pael’s voice grew serious. “Lord Ellrich has men quietly looking for the sword already, and Lord Brach is commissioning the Call to Arms that will soon be posted in all of the Westland cities. Soon, he and his captains will ride out and round up every able bodied man and boy who can fight, after you formally make the command, that is. Lastly, Lord Gregory is preparing to ride to the Summer’s Day Festival with the group of competitors that will be representing Westland this year.”

“Lord Gregory is my father’s man,” Glendar said. “He will rally against our plans. I don’t think he’s to be trusted.”

“You don’t think.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. “That is your biggest problem, boy.” Pael’s tone was mocking. “I know Lord Gregory is not to be trusted. Why do you think he is about to go to Summer’s Day, when he really wants to be preparing to bury his king? He was ordered, before your father died, to lead the competitors this year. I had your father sign those orders. Lord Gregory will be brawling and grieving from afar, while we are getting all of our things in order. When he returns…”

Pael paused as an idea came to him. He had to laugh at the absurdity of the coincidence and the old saying that fit the situation.

“To kill two birds with one arrow,” he mumbled the words aloud.

“What?” Glendar asked.

He never understood the wizard’s quiet ramblings. More often than not, he found Pael hard to figure out, even when he talked plainly.

“Nothing!” Pael’s gleeful smile had faded. “ If Lord Gregory returns from Summer’s Day, then we shall deal with him.”

A sinister grin crept across Glendar’s face when he realized that Pael had said, “If Lord Gregory returns.”

“You should take a symbolic escort of men and visit your mother’s grave in the garden yard later today.” Pael suggested.

The flickering of the torches burning in the sconces along the Throne Room's wall reflected off of the wizard’s white head, making it look to Glendar like some magical flaming egg.

“Linger there a while, and place flowers upon her stone.”

“But Pael -” Glendar said.

“Do as I say!” Pael snapped.

He knew that Glendar was dying to hold court as the new King. It was just too soon.

“There will be time enough to rule, son.” Pael’s voice became comforting and sensitive. “You will be the King of Westland, and soon the King of all the Eastern lands as well. Mark what I say. You will be the King of Kings, if you will just be patient.”

Pael left the throne room. Glendar was still a spoiled child, and having to pander to him even the slightest little bit set the wizard’s blood boiling. For a moment, he wondered where he had gone wrong, and then he cursed himself for thinking like a doting mother. None of that really mattered now, he told himself. With King Balton gone, the rule of Westland was his, not Glendar’s. He would control the boy with magic, if it came to that, but he doubted it ever would. Glendar was like putty in his hands.