The solitary man who hadn’t bothered to bow to High King Mikahl turned out to be Prince Raspaar of Salaya. His father ruled the tiny, little-known, island kingdom that was stuck between the much larger island of Salazar and the southern tip of Westland. The Prince’s dislike for King Broderick was only surpassed by the love he had for his people, which was exactly why he was in Dreen to begin with. Over several morning sessions in King Broderick’s grazing pen turned private practice yard, the Prince and Mikahl discussed several subjects while they sparred. Mikahl had to go easy to keep the Prince from being discouraged, but he did so politely, and discreetly. Mikahl learned that Shaella, the Dragon Queen of Westland, had raised tariffs on all shipping trade, which, due to her destruction of the bridge in Locar, was the only type of foreign trading that Westlanders could do.
Prince Raspaar’s people were dependent on importing several staple items from Westland, such as wheat, corn, and firewood in the winter. In the past they had purchased those items with the only real valuable resource that Salaya had: jade. Now, since the bulk of the noble folk from Westland and Wildermont had been killed or sold to the Dakaneese slavers, the demand for jade had dropped to almost nothing. So many animals had been ridden out of Westland with the army before Queen Shaella had slithered in that Westland had a severe need of horses.
Prince Raspaar’s father, King Raphean, was prudently trying to get a foothold in the business of filling that need. He wanted Salaya to act as a middleman between the Valleyan horse lords and Westland. With horses to trade, the people of the little island could keep the flow of necessities they were dependent on steady. Of course, King Broderick had been all for it. He loved a profit. The craven king didn’t want the Dragon Queen for an enemy, and dealing with her directly might offend Highwander royalty, more precisely, Queen Willa and High King Mikahl. So a go-between was necessary. Now King Mikahl was seething mad at King Broderick’s insolence and trying his best not to be angry with the young Prince, who in all truth was just looking out for his own kingdom’s welfare at his father’s request.
“If it’s not my Salaya then it will be Telgan, Borina, or even Salaphen or Salazar that will assume the position of broker,” Prince Raspaar said after pressing a better than average attack of slashes. “It would be far better for you and the alliance of eastern kingdoms if it were us,” he continued. “My father and I will be doing the dealings, and I assure you that we feel no particular loyalty to Westland, not since King Balton was killed. When one of the eastern countries can fill our need in Westland’s stead, we would be glad to divert our business from the west entirely.”
Prince Raspaar was forced to stop speaking and had to use all his concentration and skill as a swordsman to defend against Mikahl’s next attack. Thankfully, the assault only lasted for a few minutes. It ended when Mikahl toppled the man and then hurled his own practice sword into a thicket. Mikahl huffed out a heavy sigh of frustration and started walking toward the bushes to get his weapon. His mind was churning with angry, but hopeful possibilities. The Prince was talking again and the words he was saying we’re like slow fertilizer to Mikahl’s ideas.
“Of course,” Prince Raspaar continued. “We cannot rely on goods from the east sent by ship at this time.”
Mikahl stopped, picked up the practice sword, then asked, “Why not?”
“Dakaneese pirates are as thick as carrion after battle.” Raspaar had the courtesy to wince at his bad choice of comparisons, but he continued anyway. “It’s well known that Queen Shaella is half Dakaneese and somewhat particular to King Ra’Gren and his kingdom.
They say that she despises his use of slaves for labor, but that didn’t stop her from selling the noble folk of Westland to him. The Dakaneese pirates seem to avoid any ships flying her lightning star banner. All other ships sail at their own peril. It’s nearly impossible to avoid the murderous scavengers along the coast between O’Dakahn and Southport. The Salazarkians have worked out an extended sea route to Seaward City, a credit to Queen Rachel’s cunning, I’m sure. They seem to be able to elude the pirates, but the cost effectiveness of a lesser island kingdom like ours using the Salazarkian ships is counter productive.”
“So you’re telling me that, if and when the trade routes are free of Dakaneese pirates, your kingdom will start trading with the eastern kingdoms for your needed goods?” Mikahl didn’t wait for an answer, but stepped closer as he pressed on. “What if I…” He darted quickly then and went into an attack with his sword. This press was a little more forceful than the Prince was accustomed to. In the span of three heart beats Prince Raspaar’s sword was spinning across the yard. After it clanged to the earth, Mikahl only shrugged with an innocent grin on his face.
“So you could eventually sail a ship full of horses right up into Southport or even Portsmouth in Westland?”
The Prince glanced at his sword lying several feet away in the trampled grass. He had heard rumors of Mikahl’s true abilities with the blade, so he wasn’t surprised, or offended, by the sudden defeat. He had come to like Mikahl’s straightforward attitude and the way he cut through the formalities of his position to get right to the point of things. The possibilities that King Mikahl was just now beginning to see had been in Raspaar’s mind all day along. Raspaar felt in his gut that Mikahl would eventually bring Dakahn down and retake Westland. To have the High King as a friend was an honor, whether Mikahl succeeded in those two ventures or not, but if he did succeed, the bond would be the best thing that ever happened to Salaya. To the people Prince Raspaar was sworn to protect, that was what mattered most.
With a devilish grin of his own, he bowed to Mikahl’s training yard victory, and felt triumphant with his own political score. “High King Mikahl,” the Prince whispered as he rose from his bow. “Not only would ships full of horses be sailing right into Westland’s harbors, but the agents of our equine importing houses could move about Westland’s cities completely unmolested. Salaya is such a little non-threatening island kingdom, and King Broderick’s treachery doesn’t have to catch your attention, or Queen Willa’s. Just think, in a matter of months, you could know every little thing about Westland’s situation.”
“We’ll need to find you a less notable supplier of horses than the King of Valleya,” Mikahl said. “He won’t be available. It shouldn’t be hard, though, every other man in Dreen is a fargin breeder.”
“I see,” the Prince replied curiously, wondering what exactly it was that Mikahl had in store for King Broderick.
Two days later, General Spyra started back toward Xwarda with one hundred and one less men in his host than had come. Thirty archers, thirty infantry, and forty cavalrymen stayed behind with the High King. The day after Spyra marched back east, Mikahl took his little army out of Dreen’s north gate on a northwesterly course up into the Wilder Mountains. King Broderick lent fifty of his specially chosen blue-cloaked pikemen to the group.
Mikahl didn’t hurry them, even though he felt a certain desire to do so. They took their time going through the mountains and stuck to the trampled path of the Westland army’s passage. That host had numbered nearly ten thousand, and almost a year after they had come through, the evidence of their passing was still quite clear. Like a well-travelled road a lane of dirt and destruction wound its way over the rocky ridges and down into the green valleys. Where the forest infringed upon the way, it had been hewn down by the Westlanders’ axes. Where the way had been rocky, boulders and other scree had been cleared to the side. Deep ruts, where hundreds of supply wagons had rolled through, gouged the earth, and the stone rings of a thousand campfires dotted the landscape.
They made good time even at their relaxed pace. For three days their movements were slowed even further by heavy rainfall, but Mikahl didn’t let them stop. Not even when they were forced to wade waist deep, with their horses in tow, through a flooded valley while lightning flashed all around them. Mikahl had left his fancy pavilion tent behind and was using a standard issue canvas just like the others. His only luxury was that he didn’t have to share his lodgings with three other soldiers.
The last night of the rain storm a rider came into the encampment bearing messages for Mikahl. He had been expecting one message, but was handed three. The first was from General Spyra. It was the one he had been expecting. After dismissing the messenger to the mess kettle, he broke the General’s seal and unrolled the scroll. It read:
I’ve done as you asked, and things are in order as you hoped for. A message quite unexpectedly arrived bearing the Prince of Salaya’s seal. I’ve enclosed it, and his messenger is still among my men. I thought it the best course of action to take due to his unexpected arrival. The third message, I fear, is dire news, but unless I receive a command from you ordering a change in my plans, things will go as we discussed.
Your humble servant,
General Thomas Spyra
It was good to know that the General was ready, but it must be truly grave news for Spyra to think that Mikahl would change his plans now. He could guess what Prince Raspaar’s message said. King Broderick had betrayed him to King Ra’Gren, or something similar. Mikahl was glad to know that Raspaar was truly on his side. The young Prince would make a great king some day. He didn’t bother to break the seal on that message yet. He went straight to the third message. The seal on it, the seal of Xwarda, had already been broken as it was addressed to both Mikahl and General Spyra. It was from Queen Willa, and the news was staggering.
Mikahl had to put the damp parchment down and catch his breath. He understood why Spyra might think he would change his course of action now. Maybe he would eventually, but not until he handled the matter of Dreg for King Jarrek. He couldn’t afford to dally with Broderick anymore, and a few more days of his absence wouldn’t affect the new situation much, if at all. Queen Willa would know what to do until he was done scouting. He would try and figure out a way to get Princess Rosa back from the Dragon Queen while he did it. The fact that Queen Shaella was bold enough to carry out Rosa’s capture and now demanded Mikahl’s head in return for the girl, made his blood boil. He was so mad he cursed Hyden Hawk for letting the bitch live.
At least Hyden took her dragon from her, Mikahl thought. No doubt Princess Rosa’s mother, Queen Rachel, was at this very moment contemplating the value of his head. Surely her daughter’s life had to be more valuable. With King Jarrek in O’Dakahn, and Broderick working against him, what Queen Rachel chose to do here could very well turn the bulk of the east against him. He was at a loss. He wished for his father, or Lord Gregory, or even King Jarrek’s advice. They were all experienced diplomats and strategists. He was nothing but a squire with a magical sword.
He spent long hours that night, and every waking moment of the rest of the journey to Castlemont, turning over his possible courses of action. None of them seemed appropriate. He didn’t give up, though. King Balton had always said there was a way out of every situation, a way to turn every wrong into a right. Mikahl wasn’t sure he believed that at the moment, but he knew his father’s favorite saying: ‘Think, then act. If you aren’t doing either of those things then you’re really not doing anything at all.’ He scoured his brain like it was a cook’s dirty pot, searching for any idea he could think of that might help him save Princess Rosa. As the empty, ruined outskirts of Castlemont came into view, though, his mind began to grow numb.
The mightiest castle in the land was wasted. The city around it was a ghostly desolation of nothing but shambled ruins and burned out shells. He spied a company of men up high amid the wreckage of the castle’s main structures and sent some of King Broderick’s mounted blue-cloaks to investigate. He knew what they were though-scavengers, grave robbers, looters of the dead. He figured they were working for somebody, maybe even Dreg. The idea of being enslaved and forced to pick through your own people’s corpses for valuables with a man behind you holding a whip made Mikahl sick with rage.
He rode farther, spurred onwards by some unseen gut-clinching force that had him tasting bile in the back of his throat. Then he topped a small rise and saw what was left of the Locar crossing bridge and was even more taken aback. Across the river, the Westland city of Locar was bustling and had been fortified with wooden watchtowers along its side of the river. Queen Shaella’s black and yellow lightning star emblem flickered from a dozen banners, both near and far. Mikahl had to force his tears back. King Balton had been the proudest, most honorable man that had ever lived. The golden lion banner should be dancing in the wind here instead of the mockery before him.
“As you said they would, Your Highness, the Valleyans have disappeared among the ruins,” one of the cavalry captains said.
“Tell your men to be ready for an ambush,” Mikahl replied without looking at him. “Gather them quickly and we’ll ride in a tight group down toward Low Crossing. I think that is where it will happen.”
“If I may be so bold, Your Highness, why are we going to ride into an ambush?”
“In life, sometimes the rabbit is really a lion in disguise,” the High King said softly. “Have faith, Captain, I would not lead you blindly to your death.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“Your wariness is wisdom,” Mikahl turned to face him and the sadness was instantly gone from his face. Now his expression held only checked fury and determination. The High King’s eyes were oceans of confidence and the Captain’s concerns were swallowed up in their depths.
“As you command, Highness.” The Captain bowed his head then spurred his mount away to gather the men.
Mikahl didn’t hide amongst them as they slowly worked their way southward. He led them. He put himself out in front of them and had Thunder prancing his most cocky strut as they went. Behind him, his men had their bows ready or their swords drawn. The men in the rear kept glancing back, trying to see where King Broderick’s blue-cloaks had gone.
It was on the outskirts of Castlemont City that Dreg presented himself. Easily as cocksure as Mikahl, he sat upon his horse alone in the center of the road and waited for them to come to him. He wasn’t alone for long though. From out of the nooks and crannies of the city, the empty buildings and alleyways, Dreg’s sell-swords, and his fully-armored Dakaneese soldiers began to gather behind him. It didn’t take long for a force as large as Mikahl’s to gather. The only thing that surprised Mikahl was the lumbering breed giant, and the score of scaly green zard-men that came up behind them and were now blocking any chance they had to retreat.
Once Mikahl and his men came to a stop, Dreg rode forward.
High King Mikahl turned to his captains. “When it begins, charge the sell-swords,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Make a way for me. I’ll take the breed myself.”
“Brave words for a dead man,” Dreg said as he reined up a few dozen yards ahead of Mikahl.
Mikahl turned Thunder to face him. His eyes caught on something that was as out of place as a fish on a tree branch. His eyes narrowed and he looked to Dreg, then back to the sword hanging at his hip. There was no doubt that it was Lord Gregory’s sword. How it had gotten from the Skyler Clan village where they had left Lord Gregory to die last summer was a mystery.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost, boy,” Dreg mocked. “Am I the first real man you’ve ever seen?”
“Tell me where you got that sword and I won’t kill you when this battle’s over,” Mikahl said. His rage, at the moment, was barely containable. “It’s my only offer.”
Dreg laughed. “A crippled fool searching for his wife left it for me, boy. Who said that you’ll live through this battle to kill me when it’s done?”
“You misunderstood.” Mikahl rolled his shoulders. “I said that I wouldn’t kill you when the battle was over, you fargin slaver…”
There was a sharp ringing hiss as Ironspike came free of its scabbard. The blade was radiating white with Mikahl’s rage. It was so bright that it threw shadows in the broad daylight. Its magical symphony filled Mikahl’s head, and the tingle of its power flooded through his veins.
“…I’ll kill you before it gets started,” Mikahl finished. Before Dreg could even draw breath, a sizzling streak of yellow lightning blasted from Ironspike’s blade into his chest sending him whirling backwards off his horse, feet over head, over feet.