Michael Mathias: Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

When Master Sholt opened his eyes, it was about midday, and the invisible marble statue that was Phen, was gone. The balcony opening had been destroyed and it looked as if something far too large for the room had been forced into it. The floor was busted downward in the middle and the ceiling was bowed up into a mangled arch. The big bed where the petrified boy had lain was smoldering and hanging out of the room over the garden yard. Only after Master Sholt gathered himself, and cast a sending to his apprentices and Cresson, did he begin to investigate what had happened at Lakeside Castle. He was so worried about Phen that he didn’t let his grief over Master Amill’s cruel fate distract him.

The only one who offered Sholt any relevant information was the man who had shit himself. He said that the huge dragon had stuck its head into the chamber, hooked the bed with its tooth, and dragged it out to where it is now.

“After that, the dragon growled so loud that I buried my head again.” The man was obviously still shaken by what he had seen. Master Sholt was shaken too. He had no idea what to make of the occurrence, but he knew that the dragon had asked for Hyden Hawk by name. That meant that the dragon was most likely Claret.

Only a short few miles of lightly forested flats separated the harbor from O’Dakahn’s northeastern gate. Commander Escott wasn’t surprised when the zard came out of the trees like a swarm of scaly insects. When dawn broke, and Master Amill couldn’t be reached by either of his apprentices, the other two forces had gone on full alert. The High King had flown over the massacre in the first light of the day. The gate was closed again, only there was no one alive outside it to keep the Dakaneese in. The gore the dragon’s acid left behind was horrific.

Commander Escott’s archers rained arrows on the advancing zard, but after each volley they retreated a hundred paces then turned and fired again. The idea was to get far enough away from the gate that the Dakaneese troops inside couldn’t come pouring out like they had in the south. If they came out and had to stretch their number to reach the retreat, then High King Mikahl could fly in and cut them off. The dwarves who weren’t digging hated this idea. They were angry and raging over the loss of their king. They wanted to attack, not back away.

It didn’t work out the way anyone wanted it to. The gates never opened, and the zard came in widely spread groups on the backs of gekas and on foot. Huge flocks of deadly swamp dactyls filled the sky to cover their advance. Mikahl and his bright horse were surrounded by pecking, clawing clouds of them. They couldn’t attack him due to the magical shields Ironspike provided, but they effectively kept him from being able to aid the men below.

Flick and King Ra’Gren couldn’t have planned it better. With King Mikahl and his fiery steed being harried by the dactyls, and the southern force little more than a gruesome stain along the harbor now, it left the majority of Ra’Gren’s Dakaneese soldiers free to spill out of the northwestern gate and attack King Jarrek. When the gates opened, Flick and Vrot came streaking over the wall and in moments cleared the way for the soldiers to pour out and attack. Ra’Gren felt so confident in the plan that he pulled on his armor and rode out with his men. He looked like some shining steel clad sea god with his flowing white hair and beard and polished armor. He rode a white destrier and held his trident high. In his other hand he carried a small glaive-like weapon that had hatchet blades on its sides and a longer blade that protruded like a spear. It was light and effective in his hands. King Ra’Gren might have been lazy and spoiled, but he was far from soft. He had killed more people in his throne room than half the soldiers on the field combined. Once the battle lust filled him he became a force unto himself, stabbing and hewing Jarrek’s soldiers at will.

Vrot was relentless. After he exhausted his spew again, he carried Flick low and clawed men from their mounts, or whipped through the ranks with his powerful tail. Flick blasted flesh, dirt, and bone into rubble with his wicked pulses of kinetic energy. His wizard’s fire lingered on the flesh of man and steed alike. Without the High King to contend with, the amount of destruction they were allowed to wreak was substantial.

King Jarrek fought with berserker-like intensity until he was forced to stop and gather his wits. He couldn’t believe that they had discounted Shaella’s wizard and his ability to rally the skeeks, much less get them to O’Dakahn so quickly. In hindsight, he realized that the threat should have been obvious. The marshland that separated Westland from Dakahn was their natural habitat, and unlike a human enemy that would be bogged down in such terrain, the zard and their gekas were suited to it and traversed it easily.

It wasn’t the zard that Jarrek was fending off now, though. The long rested Dakaneese soldiers from inside O’Dakahn’s wall were having their way with his travel-weary men. He wasn’t sure, but it appeared that his force might have been outnumbered by as many as five to one. He had no idea how many more men Ra’Gren had inside.

He had to do something drastic, and quickly. The dragon was too much for them. He didn’t know what was keeping Mikahl from a coming to their aid, but he guessed that the situation probably wasn’t much better where the High King was fighting.

An idea struck him, and he found the ring of soldiers guarding his apprentice mage and gave the terrified young wizard a series of orders. A few moments later he rode past Bzorch, and was nearly thrown from his saddle as the big breed giant walked right into his path. Bzorch didn’t take his eyes off of his target. He was just waiting for the dragon to get in range. His huge hairy coil-man followed closely, being sure not to let the rope tangle.

King Jarrek got himself situated and moved around them. He passed along his orders to the commanders of the battling troops and slowly the entire battle began migrating eastward away from the open gates. The way Jarrek had the men and dwarves spreading out put the Dakaneese into an advancing formation. It forced the two opposing groups to take up sides of a battle line instead of fighting in random knots and clusters. It also made it easier for Flick and the dragon to attack them, which is exactly what Jarrek wanted.

Ra’Gren roared with delight when he saw King Jarrek pulling his men back. The big white-haired seadog’s armor was covered in gore. His once white destrier was a dozen different shades of red and prancing anxiously for more. He could only gape though, when a streaking spear launched up out of the fray ahead of him, causing King Jarrek’s force to let out a hearty cheer. Ra’Gren twisted and looked up to see Flick scrabbling for purchase on the dragon’s back as it twisted and writhed in the sky. A spear had punctured the dragon’s shoulder where its left wing met its neck and body. The barbed spearhead had come out the top of the dragon’s back. Ra’Gren saw the long rope attached to the spear pull taut, but a sharp pain along his calf, where a stray sword stroke bit him, reminded him that he was in the middle of a battle. Immediately, he began working away from the front. His will to be in the heat of things was fading now that Flick and his dragon were in no position to protect him.

A great roar filled the air. Vrot, with no spew left in him to blast through the rope, gave out a screeching call of frustration and pain. Then the rope yanked tight against the spear that had torn through him. He sucked in a deep whooshing breath and, with fangs gritted, pounded his wings, trying to carry himself clear.