The tip of Pavreal’s sword shot skyward as if Mikahl had thrust it up. It was all Mikahl could do to hold on to the hilt with both hands as a deep thrumming rush exploded up from the earth, through his body, and out of the blade. A swirling pillar of smoke shot into the night. Some hundreds of feet above him the cloud flattened out and spread across the sky, turning dark and angry like a roiling storm. First one lightning strike split the distant darkness, then another. Then, as if the bottom of the heavens had burst, a cold soothing rain came pouring down over them all.
Vrot had to flee out from under the clouds to avoid the wicked bolts of lightning that were streaking down all around him. Flick didn’t like it, but he let the dragon’s instincts carry them to safety. He’d managed to give the High King great pain, and fill him with fear. He doubted any amount of healing, magical, or otherwise, would be able to repair the damage Vrot’s breath had done. For now, that would have to satisfy his lust for vengeance. In his departing rage he decided to do something drastic, something that the High King and his pitiful followers would never expect. He urged Vrot westward toward Settsted Stronghold where droves of zardmen, long beaked dactyls, and big toothy gekas were doing little more than awaiting orders. There was no way the swampland creatures there could know of Shaella’s death yet. Flick had the dragon, and he knew they would follow whatever orders he gave them.
He remembered that Pael’s failure was due to power-lust and greed, and that Shaella’s demise was brought about by love. Flick felt none of those emotions. Hate, anger, and the need for vengeance would guide him on his attempt to take over the realm. He didn’t think it would be that hard-nearly every able bodied soldier left on the continent was about to converge on O’Dakahn, and he had a dragon.
By dawn of the next day, Lady Able had assembled a sizable force of castle staff. They, along with a few townsfolk who fled the riotous conditions of Castle View City, and the mayhem outside the walls, were slowly taking over the castle. Floor by floor, room by room, they moved about gathering weapons and chasing zard away as they went. Before long, all of the upper floors were rid of the scaly invaders. Armed groups of porters, stable men, and cooks ranged out and brought back supplies, just in case they had to bar the doors. With each excursion, the group gained a new member or two. Lady Able, a far different and more humble woman than the haughty noble she had once been, helped secure and fortify their area of the castle.
Only once was the group challenged. A half dozen fully armored zard, looking to see proof of their queen’s death, stormed through the big double doors of a formal dining hall that allowed access to Shaella’s apartment. They were set upon by men and women alike, wielding weapons ranging from kitchen knives and ornamental spears, to serving trays and garden tools. It didn’t take long for the rest of the zard to figure out that they were unwelcome. For every zard that fled, two loyal Westlanders joined with the group. A few men with military training began organizing, with Lady Able’s permission of course, and soon a structured sense of control was established. By the second night, Lakeside Castle was completely retaken from the zard.
Lady Able made certain that the Westland patriots knew they still had a son of Balton Collum for a king. She also made sure that they knew he had Ironspike on his side.
She had no doubt that Mikahl would make a great king. Seeing the way those little girls melted his resistance revealed the true nature of his heart to her. She silently vowed that, when he returned to his castle, he would find some semblance of order here.
The last of the red-robed priests, Solidar was his name, didn’t look like himself as he sat nervously beside the wagon driver who was carrying him and his cargo through the crowded shipping district of O’Dakahn. He‘d shaved his black beard so badly that his chubby pale face looked as if a cat had attacked him. His long hair was hacked short, and he wore a plain woolen tunic and rough spun britches instead of his silky red robes. The robes were in the crate that was riding in the bed of the wagon with him. Also in the crate was his most precious cargo: two, no, three items that his god would reward him for salvaging. He could only hope that the spells he’d cast over them would last throughout the sea journey from O’Dakahn to the Isle of Borina.
Solidar was sure that he was being followed by one of Ra’Gren’s men, or maybe one of Flick’s. His eyes darted to and fro, and he often glanced behind him, not only at the road and the sea of people that closed in behind the passage of the cart, but at the cargo as well.
The sharp crackling sound of magical static caused him to yank his head around. He was relieved to see that it was only a whip lashing into an unruly slave. He wrinkled his nose at the scene. Forty or fifty people, all chained one leg to the next, were being herded in a long line toward a grimy warehouse. Each time one of the slaves missed a step, or fell behind, the driver lashed the whip across them, leaving a dripping crimson streak. It was none of Solidar’s concern, he decided. The ship that would carry him and his cargo back to the isle, and theTemple of Kraw, was the only thing that worried him now. That and those bastards that were following.
Reflexively he looked back over his shoulder again, first at the people, then at his precious crate. He mentally went through the series of preserving spells he’d cast on its contents. He wanted to be certain that he had been thorough. It wouldn’t do if Shaella’s body, or head, started to rot while he was at sea.
The third item in the crate was Shaella’s staff. With the spectral orb mounted on its head, he would be able to reach his god directly. Kraw would tell him what to do, and he would prosper.
Chapter Fifty-Six
After a night of heavy lightning and pouring rain, King Jarrek, General Diamondeen, and High King Mikahl, with the help of Master Oarly and Master Sholt, trudged through the gore and rounded up the survivors of the black dragon’s terrible acid bath. Some six hundred men and four hundred dwarves survived. Those too wounded to continue were carried back to the cavern where others tended their injuries under heavy guard.
The four surviving breed giants kept their distance from the High King and his sword, but the fifth’s eyes never left Mikahl. Bzorch had saved the man’s life, but had nearly taken his face off to do it. He wasn’t sure if he had lost, or gained footing with the deed. He could see that only an angry red scar remained where his huge bolt had sliced the High King’s flesh, but that was only one of the terrible wounds that the seemingly indestructible young man had taken. The power of Pavreal’s blade was staggering. It regenerated new flesh over the High King’s open wounds, and the wounds of several others. It didn’t seem to have replaced some of the stuff that had been eaten away inside, but the corroded pocks closed over and ceased to bleed. To Bzorch, seeing this was miraculous. He had never seen magic used for good. For the first time, he saw King Balton’s infamous blade in a different light. He decided that he would try to speak to King Jarrek privately soon, so that he could find out where he stood. Until then, he and his kind kept their distance.
Mikahl informed King Jarrek of the Dakaneese soldiers he’d harried to the southeast of their position. Jarrek decided that his numbers had dwindled just a little too far to face them. He handpicked a hundred men and had the dwarven general do the same. He then ordered the rest of the men to retreat to Low Crossing through the dwarves’ tunnel. He told them to set traps as they went, and seal the passage for good once everyone was safely back in Wildermont. He and the men he had chosen were going to try and speed south along the river, avoiding the other force altogether. If they made it clear, his intention was for them to converge with the larger force of Willa’s Blacksword, and King Granitheart’s dwarves. From there they would methodically put O’Dakahn under siege.
King Mikahl, still burning and itching from the deep destructive wounds he had taken, approved of the plan. Though Ironspike had somewhat healed his flesh, his left forearm and hand were ruined. He could barely grip a cup,
