Michael Mathias - The Sword and the Dragon

The thing called Pael, on the back of the Choska, was the dark enemy that had sent the hellcat, and the wyvern. It was Pael who King Balton had sent him away from. It was Pael who had poisoned his King, and misled Prince Glendar, all those years. It was Pael, who had caused Lord Gregory, Loudin of the Reyhall, Grrr, and Vaegon to die. All along, it had been Pael. He knew it now. His blood surged past the white-hot simmer it had previously been, and turned into a violent boil. Ironspike’s radiant glow changed with his anger, into a blinding, silvery beacon in the sky. He was no longer the chased. He was in control now. He was leading Pael out past the city’s outer wall, away from the populace. If Pael was pursuing him, Mikahl knew that he wasn’t in the city wreaking havoc.

Mikahl closed his eyes, and let the bright horse gallop through the sky on his own head. He searched Ironspike’s symphony for what he might need, what he might use, to bring Pael down. The words of King Balton, the words of his father, echoed like timpani drums, in time with the harmonies in his head. “Think. Then act! Think. Then act! Think. Then act!”

King Jarrek fought like a hero, to let the soldiers of the Blacksword get inside the secondary wall. He had almost gotten trapped in the doing. Then, General Spyra had charged out, with a group of cavalry, and with the brilliant use of their long pikes, won the red armored Wolf King and his group free of the undead that had surrounded them.

King Jarrek had no sooner gotten himself to safety, and had his wind back, when he heard the shouts that the secondary wall had been breached to the north. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. His bones ached, and his muscles sang. He decided to go find Queen Willa, and see if he might help her find a way to survive the coming madness. These men were brave and true, and fighting with all they had in them, but Jarrek didn’t even dare hope that any of them would survive.

Pael, and his Choska demon, and now several slick, black, acid-mouthed wyverns, seemed to be everywhere. He wasn’t sure he could even survive the trip back to the castle. At least the dragon had fled. He was curious to know what happened at the top of the Royal Tower. They had all thought that Queen Willa had been lost, until she stood atop a crenel, and gave the official signal to close, and lock the secondary gates.

As King Jarrek approached the inner gate, the gate to the castle grounds, half a hundred bowmen leaned down and took aim at him. The Gate Captain had a panicky look about him.

“Remove the helm!” he ordered.

King Jarrek did so, and recognized the fear in the captain’s eyes when he scowled up into them.

“Gates…Open the gates!” the captain screamed. “Go Tuck! Go Walden! Find the red-armored impostor! He might be after the Queen! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

Jarrek gave the Gate Captain a puzzled look, then squeezed through the slight crack of the still opening portal, and wasn’t surprised when it started closing just as soon as he was clear. Save for the large formations of soldiers waiting to fortify the wall, the fountain pond area, and the forested park around it, seemed as peaceful as could be.

Looking back up at the scared captain, Jarrek called out. “What is it, man? What’s got your gunkin?”

“He was clad in red armor as you are,” the stricken captain replied. “I only now noticed the wolf skull on your helmet. Nobody questioned his cause, because we thought he was you. I should’ve known he wasn’t right. He had the smell of death upon him something awful. I thought it might just be from the battle, but now he’s gone to the castle. He might try for the Queen.”

Both of Jarrek’s Redwolf guardsmen had been on the wall with the archers when the battle had begun, and neither of them had been wearing their heavy plate armor. Jarrek had seen that whole section of wall blasted away. It was impossible for either of them to have come through here wearing their Redwolf armor. An excited tingle of hope started to creep into his heart, but then, just as quickly, the feeling turned to concern. “The smell of death upon him,” the captain had said.

At once, King Jarrek bolted after Tuck and Walden. He ran as fast as he could, in his loud, awkward fitting shell. He didn’t relish the idea of facing Brady Culvert in battle, even if the young man was already dead, but he would. He’d be damned if he’d let one of his men, one of his best friend’s sons, leave a taint upon the honor of his elite guard. It saddened him to think that the lad had been turned into one of Pael’s undead things, and he found he had to swallow back a lump, and blink away the moisture from his eyes, as he ran.

He caught up with them on an otherwise empty stretch of tree-lined cobble path, and was only surprised by the smell of the youngest, and most fearsome of his Redwolf guards.

The young man looked half dead, but he wasn’t. He held his helmet in his hands, and was only staring blankly at the two guardsmen, who had drawn their swords, and cornered him against the trees. His armor was filthy with gore and caked blood, and there was no sword in his scabbard. He looked haggard, and pale under all the grime. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed crimson, and sunken deep into their sockets. He made no move to attack, nor did he defend himself. When King Jarrek stepped up to him, Brady began to cry, and crumbled to his knees, sobbing. The young man only smelled of rotten flesh. Jarrek had no doubt that Brady was still alive. What he had come through to get there, or how he had gotten through the ranks of undead, and ended up at the castle’s inner gates, Jarrek couldn’t begin to guess, so he didn’t try. He helped the boy to his feet, and commanded the two gatesmen to bear the stench, take a place on each side of Brady, and escort him into the castle, to be cleaned up and cared for.

“It’s all right now, Brady,” Jarrek said the fatherly lie, to comfort his longtime friend’s obviously distraught son. “It’s going to be all right now.”

Jarrek just wished he could find away to believe the words himself.

When Mikahl suddenly turned, and pointed his sword at Pael, and let loose a pulsing magical blast, it took the demon-wizard by surprise. The energy hit Pael full in the face, sending him spinning head over boot heels backwards, off the Choska. The winged demon was forced to dive quickly to avoid a collision with Ironspike, or Mikahl’s Bright Horse. Pael righted his tumble and came to a hover in midair. His hands churned with blinding speed the makings of another spell. Mikahl listened to the symphony of the sword, and made ready. It pleased him, and gave him hope, to see blood dripping from the wizard’s nose and mouth.

The streak of white energy that shot from Pael’s hands struck the magical shield before Mikahl, with violent force. Though it brought him or his flaming steed no direct harm, it drove them backwards through the air with tremendous power. When the spell subsided, Mikahl returned the attack, and once again, Pael was caught in a moment of shock.

The demon-wizard couldn’t believe that Mikahl had survived the amount of raw energy he had just released at him. Pael’s own magical shield came up a heartbeat too late, and he found himself being yanked toward the ground, as if by a spring-loaded cable.

The Choska swept by Mikahl so close, that he felt its claws graze across his skin. He twisted, and stabbed at the beast with Ironspike’s white-hot blade, but only found thin air.

Pael somehow undid what the sword had done to him, just before he slammed into the earth. He hesitated there, just above a litter of charred, mangled bodies, trying to gather his composure. The Choska quickly flew around, and under him. Once he was back on it, and situated in a riding position, he twisted, turned, and scanned the skies. To his maddening surprise, the Squire, and the flaming Pegasus were nowhere to be seen.