“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.
The next man to be interrogated had been waiting right outside the door under guard and heard the cries of the man before him. When he came in he was terrified and ready to talk, but to Mikahl’s disappointment he knew less than the first man. His yelling and screaming however, sounded far more agonized and convincing than the first man’s had. The third man named a prisoner who knew the details before Mikahl had even finished the first question. Maxrell Tyne was the name, and he was one of Dreg’s captains.
Maxrell Tyne was frank with Mikahl. He was loyal to the coin, not to Dreg, or any other man.
“You’ll never spend another copper if you don’t tell me everything you know about the man who carried that sword.” Mikahl’s gaze left no room for argument. “You’ll not leave this room.”
Maxrell didn’t disappoint. He told Mikahl everything. “The man with the gold took a boat with a mercenary named Grommen. They are headed to Southport to search for the man’s wife and niece. The man said he found the sword on a body at Summer’s Day. I heard him myself.”
Mikahl was ecstatic. It had to be Lord Gregory. The Lion Lord hadn’t left his sword at Summer’s Day, he had taken it into the mountains. He asked Maxrell for the name the man had given, and when he heard the answer, he was sure beyond all doubt that Lord Alvin Gregory was alive and well, and seeking Lady Trella and Lord Ellrich’s little daughter, Lady Zasha.
Mikahl happily corrected his thought. Zasha wasn’t so little any more. She was a beautiful young lady. He hoped that she and Lady Trella had survived the madness. “You could recognize this Grommen?” he asked.
Maxrell Tyne nodded. Mikahl then made his prisoner an offer that couldn’t be refused.
Mikahl told General Spyra most of his newest plan and the man laughed a deep laugh of joyous mirth. General Spyra was unbelievably happy about his part in the things to come. When he and forty five of his best men rode back into Dreen wearing blue cloaks no one would suspect a thing. The gates to the city would open right up for them. King Broderick would think that his soldiers were home from their treachery, at least until General Spyra took him into custody. After that happened, General Spyra would become the acting ruler of Valleya. He could send for his new wife, Lady Mandary, and she could come live like a queen until Mikahl finished what he was going to do. She would love him for it, he was certain.
Chapter Fifteen
Hyden couldn’t say which smelled worse, the cavern they were in, or the dwarf. Oarly was still drunk from the previous night’s feasting. Brady was as well, but Oarly had apparently bathed in spirits of some sort. He smelled like a monastery’s brew barn-like fermenting fruit and yeast. The cavern, on the other hand, smelled of brine and rot. Something had died down in the passageway and Hyden could tell by the sickly sweet odor that the death had been relatively recent.
Hyden’s head was pounding, more from the heady smoke the bonfires had bellowed out late last night, than from the few goblets of ale he drank. He didn’t know what green plant it was that the painted Ja Jebba sorcerers had thrown on the fire, but its smoke had been uplifting, to say the least. It still amused him that Captain Trant called the Ja Jebba village sorcerers ‘juju wizards.’ Their language fit his mocking description well. Every other word they spoke sounded like “ju”, “ja”, or “jo”. Their almond skin and wickedly painted faces made them seem to turn into fantastical things as the pungent smoke took effect on the people gathered around the fires. Their honey- skinned half-naked women had, as Captain Trant promised, known exactly what parts of their bodies to gyrate and exactly how to gyrate them. The only negative aspect of the whole experience was the fact that no one in the group had been allowed to sleep off the haze of the evening.
Before dawn broke the horizon, Phen was raring to go. As soon as they landed on the island, the eager young mage purchased a map of the tombs. He discounted it entirely. It showed the same caverns that the sailors he’d questioned had visited. He knew there was no teasure in them. While the others drooled and drank and floated on the smoky high, Phen was busy. He bribed a native who worked at the inn they were staying at, and learned of an ancient tribesman whose daughter sold love potions, charmed trinkets, and curses. He had to buy a sackful of useless crud to learn what he wanted, but after spending enough coins and teaching the woman a minor spell of finding, she let him speak to her father. The old man had cackled with delight when his daughter told him that Phen was searching for the real tombs of the Jakarri.
