Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

He rode farther, spurred onwards by some unseen gut-clinching force that had him tasting bile in the back of his throat. Then he topped a small rise and saw what was left of the Locar crossing bridge and was even more taken aback. Across the river, the Westland city of Locar was bustling and had been fortified with wooden watchtowers along its side of the river. Queen Shaella’s black and yellow lightning star emblem flickered from a dozen banners, both near and far. Mikahl had to force his tears back. King Balton had been the proudest, most honorable man that had ever lived. The golden lion banner should be dancing in the wind here instead of the mockery before him.

“As you said they would, Your Highness, the Valleyans have disappeared among the ruins,” one of the cavalry captains said.

“Tell your men to be ready for an ambush,” Mikahl replied without looking at him. “Gather them quickly and we’ll ride in a tight group down toward Low Crossing. I think that is where it will happen.”

“If I may be so bold, Your Highness, why are we going to ride into an ambush?”

“In life, sometimes the rabbit is really a lion in disguise,” the High King said softly. “Have faith, Captain, I would not lead you blindly to your death.”

“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Your wariness is wisdom,” Mikahl turned to face him and the sadness was instantly gone from his face. Now his expression held only checked fury and determination. The High King’s eyes were oceans of confidence and the Captain’s concerns were swallowed up in their depths.

“As you command, Highness.” The Captain bowed his head then spurred his mount away to gather the men.

Mikahl didn’t hide amongst them as they slowly worked their way southward. He led them. He put himself out in front of them and had Thunder prancing his most cocky strut as they went. Behind him, his men had their bows ready or their swords drawn. The men in the rear kept glancing back, trying to see where King Broderick’s blue-cloaks had gone.

It was on the outskirts of Castlemont City that Dreg presented himself. Easily as cocksure as Mikahl, he sat upon his horse alone in the center of the road and waited for them to come to him. He wasn’t alone for long though. From out of the nooks and crannies of the city, the empty buildings and alleyways, Dreg’s sell-swords, and his fully-armored Dakaneese soldiers began to gather behind him. It didn’t take long for a force as large as Mikahl’s to gather. The only thing that surprised Mikahl was the lumbering breed giant, and the score of scaly green zard-men that came up behind them and were now blocking any chance they had to retreat.

Once Mikahl and his men came to a stop, Dreg rode forward.

High King Mikahl turned to his captains. “When it begins, charge the sell-swords,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Make a way for me. I’ll take the breed myself.”

“Brave words for a dead man,” Dreg said as he reined up a few dozen yards ahead of Mikahl.

Mikahl turned Thunder to face him. His eyes caught on something that was as out of place as a fish on a tree branch. His eyes narrowed and he looked to Dreg, then back to the sword hanging at his hip. There was no doubt that it was Lord Gregory’s sword. How it had gotten from the Skyler Clan village where they had left Lord Gregory to die last summer was a mystery.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy,” Dreg mocked. “Am I the first real man you’ve ever seen?”

“Tell me where you got that sword and I won’t kill you when this battle’s over,” Mikahl said. His rage, at the moment, was barely containable. “It’s my only offer.”

Dreg laughed. “A crippled fool searching for his wife left it for me, boy. Who said that you’ll live through this battle to kill me when it’s done?”

“You misunderstood.” Mikahl rolled his shoulders. “I said that I wouldn’t kill you when the battle was over, you fargin slaver…”

There was a sharp ringing hiss as Ironspike came free of its scabbard. The blade was radiating white with Mikahl’s rage. It was so bright that it threw shadows in the broad daylight. Its magical symphony filled Mikahl’s head, and the tingle of its power flooded through his veins.

“…I’ll kill you before it gets started,” Mikahl finished. Before Dreg could even draw breath, a sizzling streak of yellow lightning blasted from Ironspike’s blade into his chest sending him whirling backwards off his horse, feet over head, over feet.

Mikahl reined Thunder around and yelled, “Charge!” Then he spurred his eager mount back through the narrow corridor his parting ranks of soldiers made for him. Over Ironspike’s symphony he heard the thrump and thrum of his archers loosing arrows into the Dakaneese. The thunder of hooves and boots pushing forward, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air. As soon as the archers loosed their second volley, he called for them to turn around and fire at the zard-men who were closing in behind. A few of the foot soldiers, and two of the cavalrymen who had been forced to the rear of the charge turned to aid Mikahl. Their courage was welcome in the fray, but the riders only served to keep some of the archers from having a clear line of fire at the closing enemy.

Many of the fierce zard-men already had arrows sprouting from their fronts, leaving them looking like scaly porcupines. Thunder leapt into their midst and Mikahl swept Ironspike in a gleaming, blood-slinging arc through anything in his path. The breed giant stepped clear of the blade and brought around his tree-trunk club into Thunder’s unprotected side. Mikahl was thrown from the saddle as the horse leapt and churned in the air from the force of the blow. Mikahl landed awkwardly, but rolled quickly to his feet. The zard-man before him was as surprised as Mikahl was, but Mikahl put his blade into the zard’s neck before it could blink. As it hissed and gurgled away its life, Mikahl was relieved to see Thunder bucking and kicking at the zard nearest him. Mikahl barely dodged the huge club then. He found himself looking straight at the rock-solid chest of the half-breed beast. Had it been a full blooded giant, such as Borg, or King Aldar, he’d have been looking at a crotch instead of a chest, but this was a wild and savage thing that had never fully evolved. With a quick thrust he jabbed Ironspike’s white-hot blade deep into the breed giant’s thigh then dove away. The beast roared out in agony as its flesh sizzled and smoked where Ironspike had stabbed it.

Mikahl hoped that, once he’d reduced Dreg to a smoking corpse, the sell-swords would have turned and run, but they hadn’t. It was probably because of the Dakaneese soldiers that would witness their desertion. King Ra’Gren was notoriously merciless to any who betrayed him.

The knot of battle in the streets was fierce. Steel rang upon steel and the air was saturated with the spray of sticky blood and cries of agony. Some of the Highwander archers threw down their bows and resorted to their short swords and daggers. In most cases a clear shot with a bow was impossible now. Some of the better marksmen waited and loosed with expert precision, finding an enemy’s exposed neck or ribcage.

An orb of orange swirling flame came down among the men from a balcony. Dreg’s wizard was joining the battle. Another orb exploded among the archers. The streaks of iron-tipped death they were loosing into the Dakaneese all but stopped. The survivors of the initial blast fought the scorching wizard’s fire that clung to their skin and armor like feathers to tar. The few that had escaped the magical blaze held their ground and continued to fight.

The zard used short swords to some effect, but became most deadly when they were weaponless and fighting with only tooth and claw. They could drop to all fours and were quickly under the blows thrown by Mikahl’s men. Their powerful jaws were filled with sharp tiny teeth and they could use their tails to sweep men off balance and to divert otherwise lethal blows. Mikahl saw this, and while the breed giant limped awkwardly at him, he sent an array of sizzling crimson pulses into the zard from Ironspike’s magical blade. The breed giant’s club came down at him and he caught it with his sword in midair. Ironspike went right through the wood and Mikahl was brutally cracked in the side of his shoulder by the log that came free from its handle. His ear felt as if it had been ripped from his head, and he stumbled away from the battle clutching it, and cursing his lack of foresight. In a rage, he charged back at the breed giant, and as the monstrous savage committed to the swing of his shortened club, Mikahl spun into the blow and brought Ironspike around in an overhead chopping arc. It wasn’t the breed giant’s head he was aiming for, though, it was its forearm. The white-hot blade cleaved through flesh and bone so smoothly that its heat nearly cauterized the wound. The breed screamed in agony as its weapon, and part of its arm, went tumbling into the muddy street. The breed giant backed away then. Mikahl feigned a charging step after the creature and it broke into a run. Mikahl saw, not too far behind the fleeing beast, a large group of men on horseback all with bright blue cloaks billowing out behind them. He could only hope that General Spyra hadn’t let him down.