Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

Phen found the collar Shaella had been wearing, but a few heartbeats too late. The surviving red priest was huddled in a dark corner, trying to fasten it around his neck. It was so bloody that the clasps kept slipping between his fingers. Talon tried to attack the man, but was batted away brutally. Phen didn’t know what to do, so he cast the first spell that came to mind. A sudden burst of thorny vines shot up from the earth and entangled the priest. The priest was mystified, searching the garden yard for his unseen attacker. A ball of fire flared forth and burned the prickly foliage away. He looked around frantically, but all his eyes could find was Talon, who was nursing a dislocated wing and hobbling toward the base of one of the stone walls that surrounded the garden yard. The priest gave up fumbling with the collar for a moment and began casting another spell.

Phen was overcome with panic. The spell was obviously directed at Talon. He racked his brain for something that might help them. Distraction was the best he could come up with.

“Don’t you dare do it!” Phen warned ominously. He darted a few feet away from where he had spoken, just in case the old man had sharp ears.

“Who goes there?” the priest yelled. He began trying to get the collar back on his neck. At least he seemed to have forgotten about Talon.

“I’m nothing but a wisp,” Phen said as he cast his little orb of light into being. It appeared in his hand then floated slowly up and came to rest above his head. The priest’s eyes locked onto the glowing ball and his brows narrowed. Phen used the same spell that Hyden had used to make Oarly’s boot vanish. He strode forth, touched the collar, and made it disappear, before quickly backing away. The collar reappeared in a little space of Phen’s making. Unlike Hyden, he would be able to retrieve it later.

The priest’s face seemed to draw in toward a point at the bridge of his nose. His snarling growl was so deep and angry that it startled Phen. An icy grasp reached into Phen and clasped his heart. He knew then that he was in trouble. This was far more than just an old devil-worshiping priest. Already the dragon collar was back in the man’s hand.

Out of the corner of his eye, Phen caught sight of Talon struggling to get his wing back into a normal position. Inside his chest the grip seemed to be strangling the beat of his heart. Its coldness took his breath away.

The priest murmured some words then grinned as he saw plainly what his magical grip had taken hold of. He took his time then, and carefully got the collar buckled around his neck. The whole time the anticipation of getting to kill the boy who had ruined the Silver Skull was growing inside him.

Phen tried to struggle free, but couldn’t. He could see the hatred forming in the priest’s eyes. He wasn’t invisible to the man anymore and he knew it. He should have known better than to have underestimated the old mage. The red priests had managed to summon Hyden’s brother with the Silver Skull, and they’d trapped the High King and taken Ironspike. Who was he to tangle was such a force?

He glanced around, searching for anything that might help them. Talon seemed to have snapped his wing back into position, but wasn’t able to take flight. The poor hawkling was trembling and in obvious pain. Phen thought it was possible that the priest had a similar grip on Talon’s heart. He felt his pulse fading. His heart was being crushed and it seemed as if his guts were freezing solid.

“I should tear you into little bitty pieces for what you’ve done, boy,” the priest growled. He put his hate filled eyes inches from Phen’s. His breath was hot and smelled of onions and fermented fruit. “I would relish the sounds you’d make as you came apart.” Spittle sprayed from his mouth as he spoke. “Kraw would enjoy the taste of you, I think.”

The icy grip inside Phen let loose then, and he gasped for breath. A brutal backhand took him across the face, knocking him to the ground. “A quick death would be too good for you,” the priest snapped.

Talon hop-flapped across the lawn, and ended up on top of Phen’s chest. The hawkling cawed at the evil necromancer.

“I’ll think I’ll save you for later.” The priest murmured a few words and made a quick gesture with his hand. The world stopped then. A bitter chill, far more potent than the grasp, consumed Phen. Then everything slipped into blackness.

Had Flick flown just a little farther east when he was searching for Jarrek and the dwarves he would have found them massing in the town of Alliak. They had quickly taken it over and we’re now preparing to march west to try and trap the remaining Dakaneese forces against the new lake.

If Flick had been farther north, he might have seen the bright white shining magical Pegasus that carried the High King and Princess Rosa over the Wilder Mountains toward Dreen, but he saw neither. All he saw was the huge filthy cesspool of O’Dakahn growing larger and larger on the southern horizon as he raced to get there before Ra’Gren could crawl out of bed.

High King Mikahl and Princess Rosa landed inside the fenced protective walls of Dreen’s modest castle yard just after sunrise. After escorting her to General Spyra and placing her into his care, Mikahl found Lord Gregory and told him what happened in Westland. It was hard to be happy with the news of Sir Hyden Hawk’s fate, but the prospect of retaking Westland from the zard excited the Lion Lord. Lord Gregory outlined King Jarrek’s current plans, and Mikahl promised to come to their aid just as soon as he went and retrieved Phen from Lakeside Castle.

It was with much elation and a sense of new found hope that Lord Gregory dispatched a rider to catch up with Queen Willa and King Granitheart, who were on their way to Oktin. After that, he had Lady Trella see to the needs of Princess Rosa and wrote a proper letter to Queen Rachel telling her that her daughter was now safe and out of the Dragon Queen’s hands. Then, as soon the messenger bird was away, he found the map room and began making preliminary plans to take Westland back from the skeeks.

In the light of early morning, Flick strode up the long run of stairs that led to the entrance of Ra’Gren’s palace. A pair of guards hurried behind him protesting his passage, but they were too afraid of the bald-headed wizard to try and stop him. He had, after all, flown into the grounds on the back of a giant, ember-eyed bat. Flick ignored them. He gained the top of the long flight of stairs where another pair of guards stood. They dutifully crossed their pikes in front of him to block the ancient wooden doors. With a dismissive wave of his hands, Flick caused the panels to fly open. The wide-eyed guards were so unsettled by the blunt display of magic that they pulled their pikes up and let him through.

“I will be waiting in the throne room,” Flick said. “Bring me your king, and be quick about it.” Flick was grinning inside. The haughty bastard would be flaming mad. Ra’Gren was easily riled, and Flick loved to push the limits of the man’s tolerance. He just couldn’t respect a man, a king no less, who did nothing for himself. To be rousted out of his bed full of slave whores would have him on the edge of bursting.

As Flick entered the throne room, he looked around and caused the unlit torches ensconced along the walls to flare to life. He almost took a seat in Ra’Gren’s fur covered throne, but decided against it.

A long hour later, King Ra’Gren, dressed in nothing but a filmy robe of coral green silk, came into the throne room. He was carrying his iron trident on his shoulder as if to throw it. His white hair and beard were disheveled, and his face was a bright purplish color. The half dozen guards around him had their weapons drawn and looked a little more formidable than the ones Flick had met outside.