“I see,” the Prince replied curiously, wondering what exactly it was that Mikahl had in store for King Broderick.
Two days later, General Spyra started back toward Xwarda with one hundred and one less men in his host than had come. Thirty archers, thirty infantry, and forty cavalrymen stayed behind with the High King. The day after Spyra marched back east, Mikahl took his little army out of Dreen’s north gate on a northwesterly course up into the Wilder Mountains. King Broderick lent fifty of his specially chosen blue-cloaked pikemen to the group.
Mikahl didn’t hurry them, even though he felt a certain desire to do so. They took their time going through the mountains and stuck to the trampled path of the Westland army’s passage. That host had numbered nearly ten thousand, and almost a year after they had come through, the evidence of their passing was still quite clear. Like a well-travelled road a lane of dirt and destruction wound its way over the rocky ridges and down into the green valleys. Where the forest infringed upon the way, it had been hewn down by the Westlanders’ axes. Where the way had been rocky, boulders and other scree had been cleared to the side. Deep ruts, where hundreds of supply wagons had rolled through, gouged the earth, and the stone rings of a thousand campfires dotted the landscape.
They made good time even at their relaxed pace. For three days their movements were slowed even further by heavy rainfall, but Mikahl didn’t let them stop. Not even when they were forced to wade waist deep, with their horses in tow, through a flooded valley while lightning flashed all around them. Mikahl had left his fancy pavilion tent behind and was using a standard issue canvas just like the others. His only luxury was that he didn’t have to share his lodgings with three other soldiers.
The last night of the rain storm a rider came into the encampment bearing messages for Mikahl. He had been expecting one message, but was handed three. The first was from General Spyra. It was the one he had been expecting. After dismissing the messenger to the mess kettle, he broke the General’s seal and unrolled the scroll. It read:
I’ve done as you asked, and things are in order as you hoped for. A message quite unexpectedly arrived bearing the Prince of Salaya’s seal. I’ve enclosed it, and his messenger is still among my men. I thought it the best course of action to take due to his unexpected arrival. The third message, I fear, is dire news, but unless I receive a command from you ordering a change in my plans, things will go as we discussed.
Your humble servant,
General Thomas Spyra
It was good to know that the General was ready, but it must be truly grave news for Spyra to think that Mikahl would change his plans now. He could guess what Prince Raspaar’s message said. King Broderick had betrayed him to King Ra’Gren, or something similar. Mikahl was glad to know that Raspaar was truly on his side. The young Prince would make a great king some day. He didn’t bother to break the seal on that message yet. He went straight to the third message. The seal on it, the seal of Xwarda, had already been broken as it was addressed to both Mikahl and General Spyra. It was from Queen Willa, and the news was staggering.
Mikahl had to put the damp parchment down and catch his breath. He understood why Spyra might think he would change his course of action now. Maybe he would eventually, but not until he handled the matter of Dreg for King Jarrek. He couldn’t afford to dally with Broderick anymore, and a few more days of his absence wouldn’t affect the new situation much, if at all. Queen Willa would know what to do until he was done scouting. He would try and figure out a way to get Princess Rosa back from the Dragon Queen while he did it. The fact that Queen Shaella was bold enough to carry out Rosa’s capture and now demanded Mikahl’s head in return for the girl, made his blood boil. He was so mad he cursed Hyden Hawk for letting the bitch live.
At least Hyden took her dragon from her, Mikahl thought. No doubt Princess Rosa’s mother, Queen Rachel, was at this very moment contemplating the value of his head. Surely her daughter’s life had to be more valuable. With King Jarrek in O’Dakahn, and Broderick working against him, what Queen Rachel chose to do here could very well turn the bulk of the east against him. He was at a loss. He wished for his father, or Lord Gregory, or even King Jarrek’s advice. They were all experienced diplomats and strategists. He was nothing but a squire with a magical sword.
He spent long hours that night, and every waking moment of the rest of the journey to Castlemont, turning over his possible courses of action. None of them seemed appropriate. He didn’t give up, though. King Balton had always said there was a way out of every situation, a way to turn every wrong into a right. Mikahl wasn’t sure he believed that at the moment, but he knew his father’s favorite saying: ‘Think, then act. If you aren’t doing either of those things then you’re really not doing anything at all.’ He scoured his brain like it was a cook’s dirty pot, searching for any idea he could think of that might help him save Princess Rosa. As the empty, ruined outskirts of Castlemont came into view, though, his mind began to grow numb.
The mightiest castle in the land was wasted. The city around it was a ghostly desolation of nothing but shambled ruins and burned out shells. He spied a company of men up high amid the wreckage of the castle’s main structures and sent some of King Broderick’s mounted blue-cloaks to investigate. He knew what they were though- scavengers, grave robbers, looters of the dead. He figured they were working for somebody, maybe even Dreg. The idea of being enslaved and forced to pick through your own people’s corpses for valuables with a man behind you holding a whip made Mikahl sick with rage.
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
