When the zard were littered about the sleepy encampment, Vrot came roaring out of the sky and bathed long swaths of tents and pavilions in acid. Flick sent fireballs streaking down that erupted in half a dozen places.
When the waking soldiers, who weren’t corroding away, went to defend themselves they were overrun by heavy-footed gekas, and the swift silent attacks of the zard, and dactyls. The men and dwarves on watch duty were the first to be melted or scorched into oblivion by the aerial assault. Swift flying flocks of swamp birds swarmed down and shredded anything they could with their long sharp beaks. The dwarves fought bravely, with both hammer and axe, but even with their fierce determination they were no match for Vrot, the wizard, or the overwhelming number of slithery zard. Flick showered them all with bright fiery concussions and Vrot spewed entire lanes clear with his horrible spray, at least until his venom glands ran dry.
Master Amill woke from a twisted battlefield dream to find a huge patch of his tent hissing away. A glance outside the flaps sent a chill of terror through the master wizard. Over half of the company was destroyed, either fizzling into a gory soup, or smoldering in flames. He contained his panic long enough to cast a sending to Master Sholt. As it was cast, he realized that Master Sholt was no longer with King Jarrek. He was in Westland now, but it was too late, the spell link was already forming. Master Amill heard a great groaning creek and turned to see the massive city gates opening. A stream of Dakaneese soldiers came pouring out, and in moments the chaotic encampment was overrun.
Master Sholt woke to an insistent itching sensation in his mind. It felt like someone was scratching the inside of his skull. He sat up and glanced hopefully at the deep indentation that Phen’s heavy body was making in the soft feather bed. Realizing that it was a sending that had woken him, he rose out of the divan he was sleeping on and strode across the royal bedchamber to the balcony. He threw the doors open and let the breeze stream in. Once he had shaken the cobwebs from his head, he reached out and grabbed a hold of the magical voice that was calling to him. The faint light of the night sky was blacked out momentarily, but Master Amill’s panic stricken sending drew his focus. As he listened, he stepped to the balcony rail and looked up curiously. Seeing nothing other than stars, he turned and looked back at the bed.
The words of his friend and peer suddenly sank in and filled him with worry. “By the gods, the zard and the dragon?” he replied. “Get yourself and King Granitheart out of there. He is royalty, man… Amill? Amill?”
The sending ended abruptly, leaving Master Sholt trembling with concern. He knew that he had to warn the others. It was possible that the zard were planning on attacking all three of the siege forces. He closed his eyes and began speaking the words of another sending, but a sudden looming presence behind him stopped him cold.
The starlight had been eclipsed again, only this time whatever had blocked it out hadn’t passed over. It was still there. Master Sholt began to shake as furnace hot breath that smelled of rot and brimstone blew across him. He was sure that one of the many demons that had climbed up out of the hells was behind him. He felt his hair curling and could smell the harsh acrid scent of it burning. A voice that could have been a crumbling mountain growled behind him.
“Where is Hydens Hawkss?” it asked.
Master Sholt took two steps toward the room and turned with the balcony doors in his hands. He was ready to throw them closed and run. What he saw staggered him to stillness.
Cavernous nostrils, bigger than wagon wheels, with tendrils of smoke rolling up out of them were pressed against the balcony rail. Half a dozen feet behind them were luminous yellow eyes that were slitted vertically by pupils as long as a man is tall. They blinked with lids that rose from the bottom upward then narrowed fiercely.
“Where is Hydens Hawkss?” the monstrous thing asked again.
When Sholt heard the voice this time he realized what was speaking to him, but the knowledge caused him to faint into a heap on the floor.
The massive red dragon pushed its snout through the balcony entry, shattering glass and splintering wood as if it weren’t even there. Then it reared back and brought its head down, using its chin to batter the balcony from the wall.
The door across the room came flying open. Lady Able, and a pair of nervous looking men bearing swords and torches charged in. The lady crumbled when she saw the giant slitted eye pressed up to the gaping hole in the wall. One of the men turned and fled screaming. The other filled his britches before falling to his knees and putting his face to the floor as if he were praying.
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
