Kings, Queens, Heroes, and Fools wt-2 Read online

  Talon swooped in and landed at the basket’s edge. The bird had to keep his wings out to maintain his balance there but he did it gracefully.

  Hyden smiled at his familiar as the dragon vision slipped away from him. He touched the dragon tear medallion that always hung under his shirt. If you ever have a need of me, just call me through the tear, and I will come, Claret had said to him. She’d also said: Remember who your true friends are. They come few and far between. He wondered if her remaining egg had hatched yet. It galled him that Shaella had tricked his brother into stealing the other two. Gerard had paid the price for his thievery-or was still paying it. Hyden shook off the thought and tried to get his mind back on pleasant things, but it wasn’t to be.

  He didn’t quite understand what Shaella meant that night, in the middle of nowhere, just before he threw her off the dragon’s back. “You wouldn’t know what’s left of him,” she said. “He’s barely even human now.”

  Claret had confirmed that Shaella’s words were true. The Westland wizard Pael had run a dagger through Gerard’s heart, but Gerard hadn’t died. The magic ring he’d found had kept him alive, but barely. Apparently he had crawled down into the darkness of the Nethers to escape Pael, or maybe to chase the power that the old crone had once foretold he would find down there.

  Shaella said that he was barely human now, and Claret said that Gerard shouldn’t have survived, but he had, because of the ring-the ring that Hyden was supposed to be wearing.

  The goddess of Hyden’s clan had told him that he must someday get the ring back from Gerard, that it was supposed to have been his. Until it was on Hyden’s finger, the balance of things would remain badly off kilter.

  Hyden hoped beyond hope that the Silver Skull of Zorellin might actually allow him to retrieve it, or at least allow him to go into the Nethers after it. He hoped that Gerard was still human enough to remember who he was.

  Hopefully the bond they shared as brothers would be enough to allow Hyden to take back the ring peacefully and set the world aright.

  Talon shrieked, bringing Hyden back into the reality of the moment. To the south, the sky was turning gray. Hyden took the looking tube from its holder in the basket and looked out at a dark place on the horizon. He decided that he could probably see better through Talon’s keen vision. With his own eyes still open, he sought out Talon’s sight. Now he could see a mass of churning black clouds as if they were right in front of him. Bright jagged lightning streaked up from the sea and fat drops of rain pelted the angry waves. The swells had grown huge and the wind was blowing in gusty spurts. It wasn’t easy remaining calm as he climbed back down the mainmast to find Captain Trant.

  “A bad storm you say?” Captain Trant scanned the sky to the south and sniffed the air. “Maybe so, maybe so. Biggs! Go get me the long glass!” the Captain ordered as he strode up onto the forecastle. A brass tube as long as a man’s arm was brought up and the Captain peered through it to the south. He was silent for a long time, then he turned to look at Hyden curiously. “You saw that from the nest, did you?”

  Hyden nodded. Talon flapped at his shoulder as the wind gusted and threatened to topple the bird. Captain Trant’s eyes stopped on Talon for a moment.

  “I’d suggest that you ’n’ yer bird both get below afore long, and take this.” The Captain deftly snatched the second mate’s flask out of his shirt pocket as he moved by. “Your men will need it. That’s not just a rain storm blowing at us, Sir Hyden Hawk, that’s something a few tads nastier than hell!”

  Chapter Ten

  High King Mikahl saw the demon-boar just in the nick of time.

  Earlier in the evening they had taken two nice does, and we’re now trying for a third. Four of the archers had ridden north making a wide berth around the river. They were riding back toward Mikahl and the other three men. They were coming slowly, trying to flush a buck, or maybe even a wild sow, out into the open. Mikahl didn’t find much sport in hunting this way, but when there was an army of men to feed, and the sun was setting, there was no better way to drum up a meal. The High King was positioned closest to the band of thick underbrush that ran along the river’s bank. He was reminiscing about the last time he’d been on a true hunt.

  His fond memory was interrupted by two dull red embers a good foot apart, glowing in the deepest shadows of the forest ahead of him. He squinted, blinked a few times. Then, just as he realized that the embers were actually eyes, the beast charged.

  Mikahl loosed the arrow he had nocked, then flung the bow at the enormous beast and drew his sword. Whether from the sudden appearance of Ironspike’s magical blue glow, or from fear of the huge charging demon-boar that it illuminated, Mikahl’s horse reared and whinnied loudly. In Mikahl’s head, the eldritch symphony of Ironspike’s power blasted full force, into a glorious and triumphant harmony. Mikahl turned the horse with a yank on the reins and was ready to slash when one of the fool archer captains tried to be a hero and charged his horse right between Mikahl and the demon-boar. The boar’s tusks were razor-sharp and at least the size of a young girl’s forearm. The archery captain’s poor mount didn’t have a chance. The boar dug his head down and gored up through the animal. Then it reared back and sent horse and rider twisting into the trees.

  Mikahl was awed by the size and strength of the creature. It was as tall as a man at the shoulder and was as big as a horse-drawn wagon, but low to the ground and covered in bristling hide.

  The archery captain’s sharp scream was abruptly cut off as his head slammed into a trunk. The disemboweled horse crashed down not too far from him with a thumping whoosh.

  Ironspike’s glow went from blue to lavender, then to cherry-red, as Mikahl’s anger grew. When the boar came charging at him again, he sent three wicked pulsing blasts into the beast’s neck and shoulder. He tried to spur his mount out of the way, but the terrified horse baulked. The last thing Mikahl sensed before his horse made a desperate twisting leap was the horrible stench of burnt hair from where his blasts had scorched the beast. Ironspike was knocked from his hand and he was smacked gracelessly out of the saddle by a low hanging limb. In the now completely darkened forest, he landed hard on his back.

  For a few heartbeats he thought he might have been knocked out, but the deep grunting of the angry beast and the thrum of an arrow being loosed from nearby came to his ringing ears and told him that he was still in the realm of consciousness. As soon as he had his breath back, he scooted himself back against a tree trunk. He strained to see, but it was too dark. Men were shouting, and nearby he heard his horse crashing through the trees. Blasted animal, he thought, Windfoot wouldn’t have frozen up like that. He found that he missed his horse quite badly.

  Since he didn’t know where his weapon, or the boar had gone, Mikahl figured that he was all right to wait where he was. Then someone fired up a torch. The red eyes of the demon-boar were coming in at him again, this time with a vengeance. He felt around him on the ground hoping to find Ironspike, but had to give it up. He barely had time to roll out of the way.

  The demon-boar hit the tree Mikahl had been leaning against so hard that it shook the ground. It didn’t advance after that, it just stood there. Mikahl could smell the acrid stench of the creature’s wounds as it staggered in place right next to him. It was all he could do to hold in the contents of his bladder. Even in the torch-lit darkness the boar’s size wasn’t lost on him. He brushed against its side as he tried to get away. Its coarse bristles felt more like pine needles than hair.

  Someone called for him but he couldn’t find his voice to answer. He had a dagger in his boot, but he knew better than to waste the effort. A dagger probably wouldn’t even get through the thick hide of something that big. The only course of action was to get away while the thing was still stunned. If he hadn’t lost the sword, things would be different. As he stumbled blindly away with his hands up to guard his face from branches and thorny brambles, he couldn’t help but feel naked. Without Ironspike he was vulnerable. He knew he wasn’
t defenseless without the sword. He was better than everyone on the practice yard. He had grown used to the feeling of invincibility that the magical blade gave him, though. He had grown used to its power. He decided that, if he lived through this, he would try to be more careful. He knew if he died, the power of Ironspike would die with him. Without Ironspike, who would unite the realm into a place of peace? Like it or not, he was the last of Pavreal’s bloodline, and the sword would only recognize him as its wielder. For the first time, he actually understood why Queen Willa was trying so hard to get him wed.

  “King Mikahl!” an exasperated voice shouted for the umpteenth time, as long wild shadows went flying about the area. Mikahl heard the call and responded.

  “Here,” he rasped back. The Captain found him quickly then.

  “Where is it? Where is the beast?” the man asked in a frightful panic. As an afterthought he added a quick, “Your Majesty.”

  The demon-boar grunted beside them and made a low gurgling noise. The slow but solid sounds of trees being pushed aside, of fragile limbs suddenly being shaken loose, and the thump of heavy retreating footfalls followed.

  “It’s getting away,” the Captain said. “Should I give chase?” His words sounded far braver than his voice.

  “We’ll track it together in the daylight,” Mikahl replied.

  The archery captain’s sigh of relief was louder than he intended it to be. Mikahl thought that he could see the man flushing with shame, but didn’t hold it against him; didn’t hold it against him in the least.

  A short while later, General Spyra’s guardsmen came storming through the forest like a chaotic parade of giant fire bugs. Ironspike lay not three paces from where Mikahl sat, which saved him some embarrassment on the long ride back to Tip. Captain Finley died from the head injury he sustained when the boar threw him into the tree, and two other men had been wounded when they gave chase by torchlight. Mikahl learned all this by the campfire while munching on the hot greasy haunch of one of the does they’d killed. He raised a toast to the fallen man and then proceeded to down several cups of stout ale before promising the good people of Tip that the demon-boar would be rooted out before the host moved on to Dreen.

  General Spyra didn’t like the idea of staying any longer than necessary, but didn’t voice his opinion. Instead, at first light, while Mikahl lay sleeping off the intoxication of the night before, the General organized a party to go kill the beast and get it over with. He sent two hundred men far to the north and had them form a tightly spaced line from the river all the way out to the tree line. They moved southward through the forest at a steady clip most of the morning before finally finding the creature. It was already near death from the wounds Mikahl had inflicted with Ironspike’s magic.

  Mikahl woke to the news, brought back from by rider just after midday. A wagon was sent to bring the carcass into town, and upon seeing Mikahl’s hung-over condition, the General informed the men to take their time as they would be staying in Tip for one more night.

  Later, after seeing the massive body of the dead boar, the townsfolk of Tip put on a feast for the General, his captains, and the hero of the day, High King Mikahl, who, according to the men, had more or less killed the beast single-handedly. As much as he wanted to, Mikahl didn’t drink more than a goblet of ale that night. He didn’t like the attention these people shoveled onto him for such a trivial deed as defending himself. It was a deed that he couldn’t even credit to his own action. Everything he had done had been a reaction. Nevertheless, the people of Tip were happy and relieved, and that was enough to keep the smile on his face genuine until he found his way to his bedroll.

  Five days later they passed through Kasta, a small city and fully fledged trading center that had only tasted a minimum of damage from Pael’s army. “The undead just marched right through,” the people told Mikahl and the General. “They killed a few, but didn’t stop long enough to do much more.”

  Pael, it seemed, hadn’t been around when his army of living corpses had passed. All of the people of Kasta knew who Pael was, though. Dreen was just up the road, and of the several thousand that had lived there, only a few hundred had escaped the death and destruction Pael had wrought. The story was that half the people of Kasta had moved to Dreen to claim the shops and farms of their dead families.

  The entire two days it took for them to march the troops around Kasta, Mikahl was swamped with invitations to enjoy the hospitality of every noble, and some not so noble, house in the city. Both afternoons were spent wading down the avenues with a small detachment of Blacksword soldiers, through the sea of gathered crowds that just wanted to see and cheer the great young king who had defeated Pael.

  In the evenings they went out of their way to avoid the persistent city folk, but it didn’t matter. The crowd came to them. The last time Mikahl had seen this many Valleyans gathered in one place, they had been living corpses, wielding everything from farm implements to two-handed swords, trying to kill him and Queen Willa’s soldiers. Now they were wielding the Valleyan banner, a dark shield on a red and yellow checked background, and they were cheering the very people they had been trying to kill. The Valleyans had been attacking Queen Willa and Highwander even before Pael had come along. It amazed him what a common enemy could do to get folks on the same side.

  Besides being accepted by the Valleyan people, the only good thing to come of the attention Mikahl’s arrival was generating was the young, proud, and fully trained destrier that was presented to him that second evening. Thunder was the beautiful animal’s name, and Mikahl graciously accepted the horse. He had a squire get the information of the house that had given him the gift and hand wrote a letter of appreciation.

  Thunder had the ill luck of being owned now by Mikahl. Thunder had heavy horseshoes to fill. Mikahl would take excellent care of the creature, but he would also compare the horse’s every action and detail to Windfoot. Mikahl had already vowed to retrieve Windfoot from the Skyler Clan village when he had the time. Thunder would never find a more caring owner, but when Windfoot came home, Thunder would probably spend a lot more time in the stable than he was used to. Windfoot and Mikahl had survived a lot together.

  Mikahl was glad to get Kasta behind them. The road to Dreen seemed to be as crowded as the city had been. Many a cart and wagon was passed on the way to the Red City. Swine herds, goat herds, people making the journey on foot as well. Nearly all of them stopped to cheer Mikahl as he and the Blacksword detail rode past. When they finally reached Dreen, an escort of Valleyan cavalry led them from the outskirts of the fringe settlements into the big red clay brick wall that surrounded the capital city itself. Beyond the city, to the north and west, the Wilder Mountains rose up out of the arid plain.

  When they approached the wall Mikahl was awestruck, not by its height, but by the amount of space it enclosed. It was said that, on foot, a man might take most of a week to walk the top of the wall all the way around the city. Mikahl didn’t doubt it. The main gates and the sections of wall to either side of them had been newly rebuilt. The fresh clay brick was a lighter shade of pink than the weathered brick around the gates. And the thick wood planks that had been bolted to the old rusty iron bands of the gate itself were still fresh and white. All that could be seen rising above the thirty foot wall were two crenellated towers that were set deep into the city.

  When they passed through the gates, Mikahl saw that the wall was half as wide as it was tall. Clanking iron portcullises were being raised on the inside. Once clear of them he found that the Red City was not misnamed. Nearly all of the well-spaced buildings were made of the same clay brick as the outer wall. No building was higher than two stories save for the twin towers, which reached up out of what could only be King Broderick’s modest castle. The streets here were not crowded, and every other building appeared to be empty and abandoned. Most every structure boasted a fenced corral; some held prized Valleyan horse stock, others held sheep or goats. There were a few head of cattle here and there and more
than one weary looking bull, but mostly there were horses ranging in the pens. The clay streets were wide and pocked with the hoof prints and cart tracks of the millions of animals that had been driven through over the years. The bulk of High King Mikahl’s host made an encampment near the east gates where they entered the city. King Broderick’s cavalry attachment led the others-King Mikahl, General Spyra, two archery units, and Spyra’s fifty man guard attachment-through the city toward the castle. They had to stop for the night before reaching it, and it was well into the afternoon the next day when they finally came to the unimpressive head-high wall that surrounded Broderick’s abode.

  A pair of full-size stallions rearing to fight decorated the ornate double gate. They were a study in detail and craftsmanship. The dark stone they were carved from was veined with blood red and pinkish white. The color went well with all the red clay around them. Mikahl found that he wanted to get out of Thunder’s saddle and examine them closer, but decided against it. General Spyra eased close to him, and as they waited for the gate guards to announce them to the castle, he spoke.

  “Notice that the people who live inside the red wall are a little quieter about your arrival?” The General grinned. The sun reflected off of his bald head into Mikahl’s eyes. Mikahl had to squint when he looked back at him.

  “Aye. Days of being cheered, then all of a sudden only stares and nods inside the wall. Why?”

  “Outside the walls,” the General leaned in close so that he could whisper, “the craven king’s power is thin. They would put you in his seat in a moment, I assure you. But here, inside the walls, Broderick has thousands of ears and a much stronger base of support. He’ll lick your boots, but he’ll do it in private.”