small price to pay to have the new, self-proclaimed Dragon King of Westland, and his army of skeeks, crush King Jarrek and Queen Willa’s forces against his walls when they arrived to put him under siege.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Mikahl woke to a grave faced Master Sholt. The High King had slept for two whole days. Sholt stubbornly wouldn’t tell him what had him looking so somber until after Mikahl bathed, put on fresh clothes, and ate a healthy meal. Only then did the Xwardian wizard explain what he’d found.
“Turned to stone,” Sholt said. “A fine white marble like substance anyway? He had an elven ring of invisibility on when he was transformed, or petrified, however you want to classify it. It won’t come off without breaking the finger off with it. Without a spell, or a handful of flour, you can’t even see him.” Sholt rubbed his eyes with a thumb and a forefinger then sighed heavily. He was exhausted. Casting the spell required to see Phen while examining him, had drained him.
Mikahl put down his goblet. His eyes were filled with sadness. “That’s terrible,” he mumbled. “It won’t be easy breaking the news to Master Oarly.” He looked at the ceiling. “Isn’t there a way to break the spell?”
“Before I answer, Your Highness, there’s more.” Master Sholt stood and walked to the large window of the small private dining room. “It seems that Talon, Sir Hyden Hawk’s familiar, was guarding over Phen when it happened. The bird is in the same condition as the boy.”
“Talon,” Mikahl growled and stood abruptly up from the table. His sadness slowly morphed into an angry simmer. “Can’t you do anything? Can Master Amill? What will it take?”
Sholt held up a hand, trying to politely stall the High King’s emotion. “I don’t know yet,” he said honestly. “There may be ways to undo what’s been done, but I must study the situation. I don’t want to exaggerate the sliver of hope I hold. When I say sliver, I mean parchment thin, Your Highness.”
“Aye,” Mikahl sighed. Over the last few years he had lost more friends than he could count on his hands. With Hyden gone, and Phen and Talon possibly dead as well, he didn’t think that he could feel any more sorrow than he already did. “You have my leave to do anything and everything necessary to revive them, Master Wizard. Spare nothing,” Mikahl said sternly. It was all he could do.
“Rest assured, I will do all I can,” Sholt promised.
A long hour later, after a trip to the guard barracks where he’d often trained in his youth, Mikahl was wearing a heavy hauberk over his clean shirt, and flying east on the bright horse. He was going to join Oarly, and King Jarrek. He had no idea how far south they had gotten while he slept, so he flew over the marshes, hoping to find them close to O’Dakahn. As he passed over some of the deepest swamp he’d ever seen, he noticed a flurry of activity below. A large group of creatures was moving through the overgrown terrain with a purpose. He circled lower and made a few passes. He scared up a small flock of the big long-beaked dactyls, but saw nothing like what he thought he’d seen. A few large gekas and a pair of zard-men rooting around in an area that was infested with snappers was all. They were probably hunting. As he winged the magical pegasus back on a southerly course, he wondered why he’d thought he’d seen so many things moving. Tired eyes he told himself.
When the marshlands were behind him, and he was over Dakahn, he flew south, pushing the bright horse’s pace to its limits. He experimentally took some sharp turns and other evasive maneuvers. He’d seen how agile the dragon was in flight and wanted to mimic that grace. If he met Flick again in the air, he wanted to know what his own capabilities were. After only a few attempts to move as the dragon had, he knew that there was no way to out fly the wyrm. With its long tail to balance it, it could spin and stop, or twist in midair, right out of a streaking dive. With its elongated neck it could fly in one direction and attack with its acidy breath in another.
The one thing Mikahl knew for certain was that he did not want to be anywhere below the dragon. He knew he would have to be more than lucky to win a battle with a creature like that. He hoped it didn’t come down to an aerial confrontation, but he was pretty sure that it would. How else could he keep the wyrm off of the troops? Maybe one of the breed giants would get lucky and pull the nasty black bastard out of the sky.
Breed giants! Mikahl shook his head in angry wonder. The breed acted controlled, almost civil, while he and Jarrek were speaking. They weren’t the savage animalistic beasts he remembered from Coldfrost. Mikahl wondered what sort of an arrangement Jarrek had made with them. The way Lord Gregory passed the subject on to the old Red Wolf made Mikahl wonder. He trusted Lord Gregory and King Jarrek explicitly, though, so he decided to let that concern wait until another day.
Mikahl wondered what King Aldar would say about the situation. He knew that the true full-blooded giants hated the breed. He found that he didn’t relish his role as High King of the realm. There was far too much to worry about, too many responsibilities and decisions to weigh. His old horse, Windfoot, a good long bow, and a camp in the Reyhall Forest, or the Northwood, sounded far better. No battles, no dragons or demons, no slaves or skeeks, just a good old fashioned hunt for a boar or a stag. He could almost smell the pine needles and feel the soft earth under his boots.
His reverie was broken by the sight of not only Jarrek’s small group and the tattered Red Wolf banner they still carried, but another far larger force flying the rising sun of Seaward, the Blacksword of Highwander, as well as the red and yellow checkered Valleyan shield. From his vantage point in the sky he could see the dark smear to the south that was O’Dakahn. It was a huge metropolis, larger than Xwarda, Southport, and Dreen combined. The size of the encampments of soldiers below paled in comparison, and suddenly Mikahl didn’t feel so confident with their plan. Pael had failed to take Xwarda with an army that was twice as big, with soldiers that couldn’t die. He decided that, as soon as he landed, all the commanders and wizards, all of the kings, and queens as well, needed to be gathered. If he had no choice other than to be the High King of the realm, then at least he was going to try and be a good one.
Mikahl was glad to learn that the group of soldiers he’d been looking at was only two thirds of the force they were about to bring to bear on O’Dakahn. Other troops were still marching wide around the city to take up a position at O’Dakahn’s southern gate, nearer to the busy port.
According to the maps of the city that were laid out in Commander Escott’s war pavilion, the wall around O’Dakahn had only three gates set in it. One opened onto the docks and warehouses of Port Dakahn. King Granitheart and Master Amill were already leading a large division of men and dwarves that way. The northwestern gate opened onto the road that ran up the east bank of the Leif Greyn River to Seareach and into Wildermont. It was the biggest of the three portals, and King Jarrek quickly asserted that he and General Diamondeen would be leading the force that took up position there. Everyone agreed.
Commander Escott was assigned the northeastern gate that opened onto the road that ran to the crossing bridges of Lokahna and Oktin. One of the Highwander apprentices was to go with him, and the other with King Jarrek to replace Master Sholt, leaving Mikahl free to defend against the dragon, or anything else that might come at them from the sky. Each of the northern groups had a breed giant with a rope hauler. There were only two of the bulky crossbows left. Bzorch chose to go with King Jarrek to the northwestern gate. It was the gate nearest King Ra’Gren’s palace, which sat inside another set of walls. If the wizard was aiding Ra’Gren, Bzorch assured them, the dragon would most likely be defending that area.
Later that evening, before the main force split, they were all lingering around one of the bigger fires near the command pavilion. Many of the captains and sergeants were crowded around, seeking favor from their commanders, and trying to set their eyes on the High King. Mikahl’s battle with the demon-wizard Pael was the stuff of legends.
Suddenly, Bzorch stood up and drew everyone’s attention to himself with a loud primal roar. He let it be known to all that he had sworn to kill the dragon that had destroyed his kin. He warned soldiers and commanders alike, and even the wizards and kings, to give him much room if the dragon showed itself. Then, to everyone’s surprise, he and the three other breed all took a knee before High King Mikahl and bowed. Mikahl looked quickly at King Jarrek for answers. Jarrek cringed and backed out of the firelight as Bzorch began to speak.
“We might only be four, King,” the alpha breed beast said slowly and with deep conviction, “but we are willing to die to earn the right to control the crossing. Coldfrost is a painful memory that we will never forget it, but it is a memory nonetheless.”
Mikahl wasn’t sure what crossing Bzorch was talking about. Locar? Surely not Oktin, or Lokahna. He looked for King Jarrek again, but didn’t see him anywhere. He didn’t want to disrespect the breed giants’ show of fealty,
