Michael Mathias - Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools

An explosion of crackling lightning erupted in the middle of the fray in the street. Clods of smoking dirt and debris flew out from the impact. An empty helm tumbled through the air and what might have been a hand clutching a short sword clattered down not too far from where Mikahl stood. An arrow streaked upward from the knot of men. He followed its path. It deflected away a few feet in front of a man in a black robe who was looking down from a balcony and gesturing frantically.

“Got you,” Mikahl whispered as he pointed Ironspike at the robed figure. He found the melody for lightning and let it rise above the rest of the chorus. A bolt shot forth from the blade into the unsuspecting mage. Mikahl held it there for long smoldering moments then finally, when the smoke was rolling up from the man in a thick black cloud, he let it go. The wizard’s sizzling body crumpled to the deck. Mikahl turned to see the approaching blue-cloaked riders. A few of them ran the wounded breed giant screaming into the river. The rest kept coming. Mikahl was heartened to see swords coming out of scabbards and being raised high. These weren’t the traitorous pikemen that King Broderick had sent to betray him to Dreg. These were General Spyra’s men. He looked back to the battle in the street. The sell-sword’s and the Dakaneese were pulling back, thinking that surprise reinforcements had come.

“Break!” Mikahl yelled above the din. “To the roadside, to the alleys. Break men, break!”

Those that heard, repeated the call, and the Highwander men darted out of the lane into alleyways, or out toward the docks and the fishing houses on the river’s side of the road. The Dakaneese were shocked when the blue-cloaks rode right into them and began cleaving and slashing away.

Mikahl hoped the long double-time march General Spyra had imposed on his men hadn’t been too hard on them. They had turned north out of Dreen and trekked through the lower Evermore Forest around the passage that Mikahl’s men had taken. Mikahl was glad to see them. Keeping his men moving slow enough for General Spyra to keep up had been taxing.

Mikahl gathered some of the men from the roadside and put them to the task of taking prisoners while the rest came into the dwindling battle to help finish the Dakaneese soldiers off. To Mikahl’s surprise, General Spyra had come himself. The man fought brilliantly, just like he had against Pael’s undead army. He seemed dissapointed when Mikahl called him away from the butchery to speak with him.

“Well met, General,” Mikahl grinned. “What of the real blue-cloaks?”

“Stripped naked and under guard just north of Castlemont,” the General reported. “Most of them laid down their arms freely and swore they would kneel to you. They seem to dislike King Broderick’s treachery as much as you do. I still put them under guard, though. So that’s the zard, then?” the General asked, directing his gaze over to a twitching green-scaled mass at the roadside. “They don’t seem as deadly as the rumor-mongers would have us believe.”

“Aye,” Mikahl agreed. “It was easy for them to take Westland while the whole of its army was here in Wildermont fighting, but don’t underestimate the scaly bastards. They’re tough.” Mikahl pointed to the river where two of them were swimming like snakes against the Leif Greyn’s powerful current.

“We’d better hurry ourselves out of their sight then,” General Spyra suggested. “They seem to be able to cross the river at will. We could be swarming with them if we’re not careful.”

“Finish this then. I want as many prisoners as possible, especially Dreg’s men. A close friend of mine may have passed through here and I hope to learn as much of that as I can.”

The General gave a curt nod and rode off toward the jumble of his men who had surrounded the surviving Dakaneese soldiers and sell-swords and were awaiting an order. Mikahl sought out Lord Gregory’s sword in the muck and gore that was spread about the street. It took some effort, but he found it. Amazingly, it wasn’t badly damaged-just a few missing jewels and a gouge in the gold-chased hilt. The blade was still sharp. Mikahl ordered a soldier to find Dreg’s corpse and retrieve the scabbard.

He found Thunder limping and whinnying in pain among a group of other riderless horses. Pulling Ironspike free of its scabbard, he saw that its blade radiated a soft blue glow now that his rage had subsided. With a pat on the destrier’s rump with the flat of the blade, Ironspike discharged its restorative power into the steed. Thunder snorted his relief and nuzzled Mikahl in thanks. Mikahl gave the horse a pat on the neck then went off to lend Ironspike’s power to the injured. He’d done the same thing after he’d recovered from his terrifying battle with Pael. He was glad to help those in need, but Ironspike’s healing power was a double-edged sword, so to speak. If its healing powers were tried on one who was wounded beyond the sword’s power to heal, the sword instantly took that life to ease the suffering. Mikahl found that he had no taste for that sort of thing. Many men who lay dying wanted a priest, or a friend to hear their last words no matter how much pain they were feeling. Mikahl didn’t feel right about taking that little bit of life from them. So he used the blade selectively, on those he felt it could help, and left the others to Spyra’s company cleric and the few godly knights that traveled with the special cavalry.

It was well after dark when they finally got all the prisoners and the injured inside an abandoned stronghold just outside of what used to be Castlemont proper. They were far enough away from the river, and the view of the new Westland watchtowers, that they felt safe from an attack. The stronghold’s outer wall was made of thick stone blocks and easily defendable. They had too many men to put all of them inside the place, though, so many of the uninjured camped outside the walls. Watches were set, and the gate left slightly ajar so that if the zard or the breed did come across the river they could crowd all of the men inside quickly. It wasn’t the perfect place to hole up a makeshift army for the night, but it would do. They still had over three hundred men and fifty prisoners camped a day’s ride to the north at High Crossing. Even if the zard did try to come and surprise them, they could mount a formidable counter-attack.

Mikahl let General Spyra worry about the details of the defense. He had every confidence in the man’s abilities. Mikahl was more worried about Princess Rosa, and how he was going to find a way to get her out of the Dragon Queen’s evil grasp. While that ate up the back of his mind, he was eager to figure out how Lord Gregory’s sword had come to be in Dreg’s possession. He was in no mood for pandering or parley when he went and found the sell-sword prisoners tied up and guarded in a lower chamber of the keep.

There were eighteen prisoners who were not dying or severely injured, eleven of whom were sell-swords. Of these eleven, only seven were involved in Dreg’s mining and slavery enterprise. Mikahl pulled them out for private interrogation. He found a pantry on the same floor as the prisoners. It had a stairway that led up to the kitchens, and that gave him an idea.

The first sell-sword said that a man came through from the north with a big chunk of gold and traded the sword and the gold for a boat, but he didn’t know where the man was going. Mikahl put the tip of Ironspike’s blade to the prisoner’s throat. The man’s eyes went wide, and he began to sweat profusely, especially when he felt the hum of the powerful magical weapon vibrating against his skin. Once Mikahl was certain the man had told him everything he knew, he told him to scream out in agony. When the man was done he sent him up to the kitchens where some soldiers were waiting to watch over him.