Gregory, Lady Trella, and Oarly as they stood on deck and watched the swamp go by.
Maxrell Tyne, now Captain Tyne, with the aid of his partner Grommen, had readily agreed to take them. After all, Mikahl owed Maxrell a fortune, and he wasn’t about to forget it. They’d taken on a Water Mage to help power the ship against the current, and so far he had done well, but he was tiring. The Lion Lord hated it, but the ship was flying the lightning star banner. This served to kept the few curious eyes they came across from lingering. Save for in the night. At night it seemed like there were always a dozen pairs of eyes watching them from the marshy darkness.
The hardest part of the voyage was going to be getting past Seareach, where the Leif Greyn’s flow was most potent. The Shark’s Tooth would travel at a snail’s pace against the current, and for a time the ship would be in the archers’ range from either side of the river. Once they were through they could hug the Wildermont shoreline and make their way slowly up to Castlemont, where King Jarrek was supposed to be trying to regroup.
As the ship moved into the dangerous run of river, Lord Gregory ushered Lady Trella below, using the dark clouds building in the sky as his excuse. He’d spotted a bug-covered, half-consumed, human body floating in the water and wanted to spare his wife the sight of it.
“There’s why we’re not being eaten alive by the flies, Lord Lion,” Maxrell Tyne said. A look from Lord Gregory, as he gently turned Trella’s eyes away, spoke daggers. Tyne cringed and shrugged his apology.
After the lady was below, Oarly pointed out a few more bodies to the crew. “Them snapping marsh monsters are bloated and sleeping,” the dwarf surmised. “I think the arrow in that last body was fletched in Dakahn.”
“I seen one with inked skin,” Grommen called from the back of the ship, where he was scanning the marsh behind them, making sure nothing was following. “Tattooed from head to… Well, what was left of the bastard was covered with the ink.”
Captain Tyne had the best view from the wheel deck. He put his hand on his brow and looked around them. “It was no small battle that put this much death in the river,” he said as he reached for his brass looking glass.
“There,” Oarly said, pointing. “One of Queen Willa’s men, a Blacksword.” He was a little drunk on Wyndall’s liquid fire, as he had been for days. There was an unopened keg of the stuff lashed on the deck, and several flasks stashed in his gear.
“I hope we’re not too late to be of aid to King Jarrek,” Lord Gregory said after the hatch door closed behind his return.
“We’ll be able to see Seareach soon,” Captain Tyne said, as he peered to the north through the looking glass. “We’ll be able to tell more about the situation then, assuming of course that this weather holds off.”
A turn of the glass later Captain Tyne asked Lord Gregory to come up and have a look. The sky had darkened considerably, but it hadn’t begun to rain yet. That it would rain, was inevitable.
When he looked, Lord Gregory couldn’t help but bark out a laugh at what he saw.
“He’s held the passage, man,” Gregory observed loud enough for Oarly and Grommen to hear. “It cost a lot of men, but they held the passage.”
“A hell of a battle had to take place there,” observed Tyne. “Look at the corpses.”
“Aye,” Lord Gregory agreed, scanning the Wildermont shore northward. There were jams of bodies bobbing like pale white logs caught against the far shoreline. He paused and twisted the outer casing of the brass tube to focus the lenses. “What in all the hells?” He took the device from his eye and polished its lens with the hem of his shirt and looked again. “By the gods, there are breed giants roaming among Jarrek’s men.” Lord Gregory swung the looking glass southward and, after a moment, found what he was looking for. “The Dakaneese are still positioned near the mouth of the pass, but they don’t seem to be preparing for anything.”
“Licking their wounds and waiting for reinforcements,” said Tyne. “That’s how I see it.”
“Aye,” Lord Gregory agreed. He looked again at the breed giants mingling with all the human soldiers on the Wildermont side of the pass. He had bloodied his sword well against them a decade earlier, at the Battle of Coldfrost. He didn’t know what to make of it.
Oarly came up the ladder, his curiosity getting the better of him. He’d been listening to the conversation and wanted to have a look for himself. “May I?” he asked.
“Please do,” Lord Gregory replied. “There are some of your people among Jarrek’s men as well.”
“My people?” Oarly asked with narrowed brows. He took the tube from the Lion Lord. “That’s impossible,” he said as he put it to his eye.
“Not impossible. I saw them,” Lord Gregory pointed his finger to the north. “Look for the breed giants gathered round the bonfire, you see them?”
“I see the wild looking bastards,” Oarly answered.
“Now take a look just to the left of them, you’ll…”
“By Doon!” Oarly did a hop-skip in place without moving the glass from his eye. “The Lion’s got it right. Not just a few of them.” Oarly looked at Lord Gregory, then at Captain Tyne. “You know what this means?” he asked them excitedly.
Neither Lord Gregory nor Maxrell Tyne had any idea what it meant. Tyne shrugged because Oarly was about to tell them whether they cared to know or not.
Not even the loud pattering of the fat raindrops that started to fall could dampen the dwarf’s enthusiasm. The dwarves of Doon had not only returned to the surface of the land, they’d come to Wildermont to fight with the Red Wolf.
Chapter Forty – One
The rain limited visibility. Even from the great height of Locar’s newest wooden structure, a monstrosity of a gate tower, it was hard to see for more than a few hundred feet in any direction. The open space in the tree trunk wall, where the actual gate would eventually be, was wide open. Through it ran the Midway Passage, a well packed road that stretched across Westland from east to west. In this weather, Sorvich was sure that no one would be traveling in or out of the city. Still, he looked on vigilantly from the tower platform, even though his fur was saturated with rain. Sorvich, had a huge swivel mounted dragon gun at his disposal, but he never once thought to look up.
Shaella urged Vrot straight to the commandeered building where the Lord of Locar normally ruled his roost. The stone structure gurgled and hissed, and slowly began to melt away after Vrot drenched it in his acidy spew. A few screams resounded through the rainy gloom as those who were out working in the weather caught sight of the sizable black dragon sitting in the middle of Locar’s main thoroughfare. It didn’t take long for a full alarm to be sounded. Shaella sat patiently on Vrot’s back, waiting to see what sort of action would be taken. While she waited, she let Vrot satisfy his hunger on a couple of breed that came close enough for him to reach. Before long a somewhat organized group of breed giants, with a few humans thrown in the mob, cautiously approached from down the street. A few of them sported her lightning star on their leather service armor. Two of the breed carried large crossbows like the one Flick warned her of. The others carried axes or swords. Upon seeing that it was Queen Shaella sitting on the dragon’s back, about two thirds of the group bowed to her.
“Where is Lord Bzorch?” she yelled through the drizzle.
One of the braver breed giants, one who was loyal to Bzorch and his cause, stepped forward. He didn’t lower the dragon gun he held. “He’s not here,” the breed yelled back.
Shaella sighed. The breed giants were like pack animals. They all followed the alpha male. In this case they were about to start following the alpha female or pay the price for not doing so. “I can see that, fool.” With a thought she had Vrot blast the breed with his corrosive breath. The spear launched out of the breed’s weapon at an odd, harmless angle, and in seconds the screaming half-beast was nothing more than a gory puddle in the street.
Most of the onlookers walked quickly away then. Those who stayed lowered their weapons and stepped back cautiously.
Another breed giant came forward holding both of his hands up to show that he was unarmed and suppliant. He bowed graciously then spoke. “Your Highness, I am Lord Bzorch’s hand. My name is Cozchin. The Lord of Locar is across the river in what used to be Wildermont, trying to expand the limits of the city.” He wiped the rain from his snouted face and tried to disguise his fear. With his primitive features, the expression looked more like a snarl.
