another. The second struck the wyvern near where one of its wings joined its body. The creature roared out in pain, and the long, snaky thing veered clearly to one side in its flight. The wyvern roared again, as it tried to alter its new course with its injured wing. It did no good. The creature came crashing into the wet earth in a tumbling flailing splash.
Hargh’s wild-eyed horse went screaming and bucking towards the trees. The cool rain was no comfort to its burning, dissolving hide. Already, a large swathe of its flesh was corroding away where the wyvern’s blood had splashed it. It didn’t look like the animal would suffer much longer.
King Jarrek, and the other red-armored guardsman, Markeen, went charging towards the struggling wyvern with their swords held high, hoping to kill it before it regained its senses.
Captain Proct checked the tension on the bow string. He almost regretted that it was still holding true. He put an arrow to his string and rode swiftly over to the writhing, growling body of his longtime friend. Hargh’s face was a misshapen, acid-eaten ruin, and Proct mercifully put an arrow through the man’s breastplate into his heart.
Just as King Jarrek and Markeen gained the wyvern, it rose up onto its hind legs. One of its wings was folded in naturally, but the other was half open, and twisted skyward. It scrambled forward at the approaching men, snapping its teeth and hissing. The wyvern’s one good fore claw was raised to defend itself. The other dangled uselessly from a small thickness of bloody sinew.
“I thought I’d never wish to see a pike again!” King Jarrek yelled, letting his memory of King Glendar’s beheadings fuel his courage and anger.
Wishing he had one of Glendar’s pikes now, he broke away from Markeen, and started around the creature’s right side.
“Go around it, Markeen, so it can’t see us both at the same time!”
Markeen did as he was ordered, and was rewarded for it by a jarring crack across the side of his helmet by the wyvern’s thick tail. The force of the blow nearly knocked him from his horse. For a long moment, all he could see was blackness, filled with tiny exploding stars. In a berserk rage, he shook it off, and went charging in at the creature.
His sword made hard, slashing arcs. His horse stopped and started, as Markeen’s knees commanded, but it balked and hopped when the wyvern’s tail came sweeping back across the ground. Markeen landed a solid blow, slicing a deep gash in the beast. The blade would have done massive amounts of damage, had the stumbling motion of his horse not carried them both away from it. It was a stroke of luck that the destrier had faltered, because the wyvern’s jaws came striking round, and snapped shut with an audible crack, exactly where Markeen’s head had just been.
King Jarrek, not one to go into a reckless battle rage, spurred his mount in close enough so that he might thrust into the wyvern’s body deeply. The thing was focused on Markeen, and paying little mind to where he was, so Jarrek took advantage. His attack was thwarted by the beast’s broken wing, as it came around, and nearly clipped him from his horse. It was then that Jarrek heard the Highwander wizard’s voice screaming out hoarsely.
“Away! Get away from it!”
Targon, on foot, with a growing sphere of magical blue force in his hands, was half stumbling, half charging from the tree line. No sooner had Jarrek reined his horse away and got clear of the thing, than a bright, sizzling sapphire crackle came streaking from the wizard’s hands like a shooting star. The blast went right into the wyvern’s side and exploded. A head sized chunk of its meat and bone was blown into an acid mist. By then, both King Jarrek and Markeen were spurring themselves towards Targon at a full gallop.
Seeing that his companions were finally out of his way, Captain Proct let another arrow fly, but his effort seemed pointless when Targon sent two more of his wicked blue blasts at the thing. The last magical blow, hit the wyvern in the side of its viper-like head. Upon impact, skull, scale, and a grayish black mass of bloody muck splattered to the ground with a sizzling hiss. A moment later, the long sinuous neck and body fell sputtering and twitching into the mud.
Exhausted, and half dazed, Targon crumpled to the grass where he stood. Captain Proct raced over to see to him. King Jarrek dismounted and ordered Markeen to follow suit. They took a long time inspecting each other’s armor for damage.
The King’s breastplate had been splattered, and when Markeen tried to wipe it clean with a piece of blanket, the red enamel, and a thin layer of gritty steel smeared across it.
Jarrek’s plate mail had been crafted generations ago, and was far lighter than it appeared to be. Apparently, it was still semi-resistant to the wyvern’s acid blood, because Hargh’s armor was eaten completely through. The smear left on Jarrek’s breast plate resembled a streaking fireball, but the integrity of the armor seemed intact.
Luckily for Markeen, whose armor was of the same make and material as Hargh’s, his was free of the corrosive stuff altogether.
Once Jarrek saw the tip of Markeen’s blade, he was glad that he hadn’t stabbed the wyvern with his. Like his armor, the sword called, Wolf’s Fang, had been passed down from King to Prince, for generations. It wouldn’t do to have an arm’s length of its tip eaten away like Markeen’s sword.
“Was it a dragon, Highness?” Markeen asked his King.
Jarrek told him no, but further explanation was cut off by the wizard’s weak voice calling for him. The captain had run down Targon’s horse, and had gotten the spell-weary man back in the saddle. He was leading the slumped over wizard towards the others.
“Hellborn Wyvern,” Targon rasped to them. He wiped some rain from his face and looked at King Jarrek sternly. “It is a creature of brimstone, which until recently was banished behind Pavreal’s Seal.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t have the strength.
“Say a prayer for our countrymen,” Jarrek ordered. “There’s no time to bury them. We have to get into the forest. We’ll be safer there. We’re about ten days out of Highwander, and I, for one, don’t want to wait around and see what else is lingering about out here.”
Maybe it was guilt, or maybe Jarrek just had to say it, but when he was back on his horse, he spoke clearly.
“They would understand and forgive us.”
After a few moments of silent reverence, Captain Proct barked out an order.
“Salvage what supplies you can from the Bridge Guards, Markeen.” He pointed at both the fallen cavalrymen. “I’ll go see where Hargh’s horse fell, and get what’s worth saving from it.”
The rain seemed to be falling harder now, and the line of golden sunshine Jarrek had spotted earlier was nowhere to be found. He and Targon waited at the tree line for the other two to finish pilfering the dead. In any another situation, Jarrek wouldn’t have allowed such sacrilege, but the food, wine skins, and other necessities that might be stashed away in those packs couldn’t be left behind. They had a long ride ahead of them, through one of the most formidable forests the gods had ever created. Anything that might help them get through was welcome at this point, no matter how it had to be acquired.
The soldier who had been unhorsed and killed before the wyvern had announced itself properly, had a sword that Markeen gladly took up. The same man’s horse was found by Captain Proct and used as a pack animal to carry the blankets and other gear that they gathered from their fallen comrades. They had enough rations now to go a few days without being forced to hunt. This was a small comfort, after all the death and destruction they had seen, and survived over the last few days, but a comfort, nonetheless. It meant that they could make haste, and put some distance between themselves, and all the horror. The further into the forest they went, the better. Or so they hoped.
Strangely enough, the rain slacked off and then stopped right after they entered the Evermore. It was late in the day and they were spared, for that evening at least, the miserable humidity that the sun would eventually draw out of the soaked woods. They traveled long into the night before sadness and exhaustion forced them to make camp. When they finally did, King Jarrek looked long and hard at the weak and sickly form of the Witch Queen’s wizard. He couldn’t help but feel squeamish about going to Xwarda, but there was no way he could doubt Targon anymore. Twice now the Highwander wizard had saved his skin in the heat of battle. If that didn’t warrant his complete trust, he didn’t know what did.
As King Jarrek drifted off into a wary sleep, his mind and heart went out to the thousands and thousands of
