Michael Mathias - The Sword and the Dragon

“I can only hope.” She turned to face away from him.

A sudden, blue radiance had caught her attention, out where the lone, white-robed figure had been standing.

“The power of the Wardstone is strong here, and I can…” Her voice cut off suddenly as she took in a sharp audible breath.

It was Mikahl. The sapphire glow was Ironspike’s blade, and the demon-wizard Pael had just appeared behind him.

“We were all destined to bow before that one,” said Willa absently, her attention held raptly on Mikahl.

“Aye,” Jarrek agreed.

He leaned out between two crenels, to get a better look, and cringed in horror, when he saw a swirling emerald column of wizard’s fire erupt, and consume Mikahl.

Pael fumed at the audacity of the idiot squire. How dare he call him out, as if he were just a drunkard at some piss poor tavern? Pael took his time, studied the situation, and the terrain, long and hard from afar, before he made his move.

He was too wise to be baited with mere insults. Was the boy even capable of setting a trap? he wondered. Was he using himself as bait? No. He was only an adolescent young man, driven by a need for vengeance, and blinded by youth, and inexperience. Pael let him sit, let him wonder, and wait. Pael let him relax and tire. He let the white-hot fire that had fueled Mikahl’s earlier rage die out. Then, and only then, did Pael attack.

With a crackling pop, Pael appeared a few paces behind Mikahl. He had the fool squire, and he knew it. He had the advantage of total surprise. He had the spell’s last word on the tip of his tongue, and Errion Spightre was still resting in its sheath on the boy’s back. He grinned, as he started to speak the final syllable that would cause wizard’s fire to consume the foolish bastard-born whelp, but suddenly, something he could never have accounted for, came tearing into his face.

The fluttering of wings, the screeching call of a bird of prey, and razor-sharp claws digging into his eyes, all combined to steal the word from Pael’s lips. The bright blue glow of Ironspike’s blade filled his other eye. He shrieked out in pain, and batted the hawkling from his face, with a brutal swipe of his hand. The pain was terrible, but through clenched teeth, he managed to get the word that released his spell, spoken. Warm liquid from his ruined eye ran down his face, as the squire was suddenly engulfed by his magical jade inferno.

The wizard’s fire erupted around Mikahl, hot and sticky, sizzling his robe, and his flesh, and through the sword, he called forth the melody of magical armor. Though it put a layer of protection between his skin, and the blaze, it didn’t keep the heat from affecting him.

Oh, how he was thankful for Talon’s intervention. Had the hawkling not bought him the time to draw the sword, he would have surely been charred to the bone by now. Hearing no obvious way to extinguish the fire in the symphony that raged in his mind, he simply stepped back, out of its confined radius. He was relieved that the bulk of the flames stayed where they were. Only small, dripping tendrils clung to his magical shell, and they were expiring as he moved around to meet the demon-wizard.

He was surprised to see the chunk of gore hanging from Pael’s eye socket. Talon had destroyed one eye, and several thick streaks of blood, trailed from the wizard cheeks, where they had been ripped open by Talon’s claws. Pael himself was seething. He blocked the sparkling swing of Ironspike’s blade, seemingly effortlessly, and then discharged a hot crimson pulse, directly into Mikahl’s chest.

Mikahl went stumbling backwards, his breath knocked out of his lungs, as if by a hammer blow. While he was reeling to catch his balance, he saw the wizard striding to kick at something. It was Talon. The bird was half stunned, and trying desperately to flap itself into the air, and unaware of the boot closing in on it. It sickened Mikahl to see it, and he called out a warning, but the gesture was futile. A clump of feathers swirling to the ground, where the bird had just been, was all he could see now. The look of satisfaction on Pael’s ruined face, confirmed that he hadn’t missed his target. As Mikahl regained his balance, another hot crimson blast came at him, then another. Once again, he was slammed full in the chest. It was all he could do, to keep a grip on his sword’s hilt as he was sent flailing backwards, by the powerful static pulses.

Hyden Hawk actually felt the swiping blow Pael had thrown to get Talon off of his face. It had stunned the bird’s vision, throwing Hyden back to his present situation on Claret’s sleek, undulating back. That glint of a vast body of water, reflecting the moonlight up from far beneath them, and the feel of the wind buffeting him caused a moment of panic, but he recovered. He had been so attuned to Talon’s senses while helping Mikahl that he had forgotten himself. He felt satisfied that Talon had done some real damage to the demon-wizard. He was also pleased, and relieved, that Mikahl was alive, and that his sword was alight with power.

What the foolish castle born goof had been doing, standing out there in the open, in nothing, but a filthy white robe, Hyden couldn’t understand. He shifted back into Talon’s vision, and saw nothing but flaring green rocks, and the wild shadows they cast. The hawkling’s mind was full of confusion. Then, he heard Mikahl’s voice calling out to him. Was it a warning? The impact of Pael’s hard leather boot, into Talon’s frail body, suddenly rocked Hyden so hard, that he nearly fell from the dragons back. Unconsciousness overtook him completely this time.

Through the link of the collars, Claret felt Hyden Hawk go limp. She pulled a wing stroke to keep him in his seat, and then put forth that much more effort to get them to her lair. She would do anything for Hyden, anything that she could, because, through the link of the collars, she had read his intentions, and she knew that as soon as this most important deed was finished, that he would take her collar off, and set her free. He hadn’t been lying to her. He would set her free, and once he did so, she could find a place far away from the reaches of man. There, she could make another nest, and finally hatch her remaining egg.

The castle’s protective walls, being not nearly as tall as the great outer walls had been, were quickly overtaken. The magi, even the novices and apprentices, cast spell after spell, creating barriers of thorn, or fire, to try and stop the undead soldiers, but it wasn’t enough. In a dozen, or more places, Pael’s rotting men were gaining the castle grounds in hordes. Even with the magnifying power of their proximity to the Wardstone to help fortify and intensify their spells, the dead came.

The soldiers of the Blacksword, fought tooth and nail to defend the castle though. They were relentless, and brave. Crowded in, and facing impossible numbers, they couldn’t win the advantage. For every undead that came over the wall, half a handful of Highwander men were killed, or injured.

Like maggots on the carcass of a rotting varmint, the dead army swarmed the breaches, and fought their way into the grounds. Queen Willa drew upon the power of the Wardstone, and sent silvery witch fire, and wicked blasts of static energy down upon them, but she could only do so much. Not only was she exhausted, but her own men were down there too, and she didn’t want to hurt them with her attacks. Through the trees of the forest park, from the roofs of the castle’s lower outbuildings, and around and even through the black blood stained waters of Whitten Loch, the undead came.

Eventually, they overtook the fierce Blacksword soldiers, and gained the castle’s entry. A sleek, black-scaled wyvern came soaring through the space where the depiction of Ironspike’s forging had once been. From the top of the Royal Tower, King Jarrek urged Queen Willa to come away, while she still could. She wouldn’t hear of it.