Mikahl reined Thunder around and yelled, “Charge!” Then he spurred his eager mount back through the narrow corridor his parting ranks of soldiers made for him. Over Ironspike’s symphony he heard the thrump and thrum of his archers loosing arrows into the Dakaneese. The thunder of hooves and boots pushing forward, and the sound of ringing steel filled the air. As soon as the archers loosed their second volley, he called for them to turn around and fire at the zard-men who were closing in behind. A few of the foot soldiers, and two of the cavalrymen who had been forced to the rear of the charge turned to aid Mikahl. Their courage was welcome in the fray, but the riders only served to keep some of the archers from having a clear line of fire at the closing enemy.
Many of the fierce zard-men already had arrows sprouting from their fronts, leaving them looking like scaly porcupines. Thunder leapt into their midst and Mikahl swept Ironspike in a gleaming, blood-slinging arc through anything in his path. The breed giant stepped clear of the blade and brought around his tree-trunk club into Thunder’s unprotected side. Mikahl was thrown from the saddle as the horse leapt and churned in the air from the force of the blow. Mikahl landed awkwardly, but rolled quickly to his feet. The zard-man before him was as surprised as Mikahl was, but Mikahl put his blade into the zard’s neck before it could blink. As it hissed and gurgled away its life, Mikahl was relieved to see Thunder bucking and kicking at the zard nearest him. Mikahl barely dodged the huge club then. He found himself looking straight at the rock-solid chest of the half-breed beast. Had it been a full blooded giant, such as Borg, or King Aldar, he’d have been looking at a crotch instead of a chest, but this was a wild and savage thing that had never fully evolved. With a quick thrust he jabbed Ironspike’s white-hot blade deep into the breed giant’s thigh then dove away. The beast roared out in agony as its flesh sizzled and smoked where Ironspike had stabbed it.
Mikahl hoped that, once he’d reduced Dreg to a smoking corpse, the sell-swords would have turned and run, but they hadn’t. It was probably because of the Dakaneese soldiers that would witness their desertion. King Ra’Gren was notoriously merciless to any who betrayed him.
The knot of battle in the streets was fierce. Steel rang upon steel and the air was saturated with the spray of sticky blood and cries of agony. Some of the Highwander archers threw down their bows and resorted to their short swords and daggers. In most cases a clear shot with a bow was impossible now. Some of the better marksmen waited and loosed with expert precision, finding an enemy’s exposed neck or ribcage.
An orb of orange swirling flame came down among the men from a balcony. Dreg’s wizard was joining the battle. Another orb exploded among the archers. The streaks of iron-tipped death they were loosing into the Dakaneese all but stopped. The survivors of the initial blast fought the scorching wizard’s fire that clung to their skin and armor like feathers to tar. The few that had escaped the magical blaze held their ground and continued to fight.
The zard used short swords to some effect, but became most deadly when they were weaponless and fighting with only tooth and claw. They could drop to all fours and were quickly under the blows thrown by Mikahl’s men. Their powerful jaws were filled with sharp tiny teeth and they could use their tails to sweep men off balance and to divert otherwise lethal blows. Mikahl saw this, and while the breed giant limped awkwardly at him, he sent an array of sizzling crimson pulses into the zard from Ironspike’s magical blade. The breed giant’s club came down at him and he caught it with his sword in midair. Ironspike went right through the wood and Mikahl was brutally cracked in the side of his shoulder by the log that came free from its handle. His ear felt as if it had been ripped from his head, and he stumbled away from the battle clutching it, and cursing his lack of foresight. In a rage, he charged back at the breed giant, and as the monstrous savage committed to the swing of his shortened club, Mikahl spun into the blow and brought Ironspike around in an overhead chopping arc. It wasn’t the breed giant’s head he was aiming for, though, it was its forearm. The white-hot blade cleaved through flesh and bone so smoothly that its heat nearly cauterized the wound. The breed screamed in agony as its weapon, and part of its arm, went tumbling into the muddy street. The breed giant backed away then. Mikahl feigned a charging step after the creature and it broke into a run. Mikahl saw, not too far behind the fleeing beast, a large group of men on horseback all with bright blue cloaks billowing out behind them. He could only hope that General Spyra hadn’t let him down.
An explosion of crackling lightning erupted in the middle of the fray in the street. Clods of smoking dirt and debris flew out from the impact. An empty helm tumbled through the air and what might have been a hand clutching a short sword clattered down not too far from where Mikahl stood. An arrow streaked upward from the knot of men. He followed its path. It deflected away a few feet in front of a man in a black robe who was looking down from a balcony and gesturing frantically.
“Got you,” Mikahl whispered as he pointed Ironspike at the robed figure. He found the melody for lightning and let it rise above the rest of the chorus. A bolt shot forth from the blade into the unsuspecting mage. Mikahl held it there for long smoldering moments then finally, when the smoke was rolling up from the man in a thick black cloud, he let it go. The wizard’s sizzling body crumpled to the deck. Mikahl turned to see the approaching blue-cloaked riders. A few of them ran the wounded breed giant screaming into the river. The rest kept coming. Mikahl was heartened to see swords coming out of scabbards and being raised high. These weren’t the traitorous pikemen that King Broderick had sent to betray him to Dreg. These were General Spyra’s men. He looked back to the battle in the street. The sell-sword’s and the Dakaneese were pulling back, thinking that surprise reinforcements had come.
“Break!” Mikahl yelled above the din. “To the roadside, to the alleys. Break men, break!”
Those that heard, repeated the call, and the Highwander men darted out of the lane into alleyways, or out toward the docks and the fishing houses on the river’s side of the road. The Dakaneese were shocked when the blue-cloaks rode right into them and began cleaving and slashing away.
Mikahl hoped the long double-time march General Spyra had imposed on his men hadn’t been too hard on them. They had turned north out of Dreen and trekked through the lower Evermore Forest around the passage that Mikahl’s men had taken. Mikahl was glad to see them. Keeping his men moving slow enough for General Spyra to keep up had been taxing.
Mikahl gathered some of the men from the roadside and put them to the task of taking prisoners while the rest came into the dwindling battle to help finish the Dakaneese soldiers off. To Mikahl’s surprise, General Spyra had come himself. The man fought brilliantly, just like he had against Pael’s undead army. He seemed dissapointed when Mikahl called him away from the butchery to speak with him.
“Well met, General,” Mikahl grinned. “What of the real blue-cloaks?”
“Stripped naked and under guard just north of Castlemont,” the General reported. “Most of them laid down their arms freely and swore they would kneel to you. They seem to dislike King Broderick’s treachery as much as you do. I still put them under guard, though. So that’s the zard, then?” the General asked, directing his gaze over to a twitching green-scaled mass at the roadside. “They don’t seem as deadly as the rumor-mongers would have us believe.”
“Aye,” Mikahl agreed. “It was easy for them to take Westland while the whole of its army was here in Wildermont fighting, but don’t underestimate the scaly bastards. They’re tough.” Mikahl pointed to the river where two of them were swimming like snakes against the Leif Greyn’s powerful current.
“We’d better hurry ourselves out of their sight then,” General Spyra suggested. “They seem to be able to cross the river at will. We could be swarming with them if we’re not careful.”
“Finish this then. I want as many prisoners as possible, especially Dreg’s men. A close friend of mine may have passed through here and I hope to learn as much of that as I can.”
The General gave a curt nod and rode off toward the jumble of his men who had surrounded the surviving Dakaneese soldiers and sell-swords and were awaiting an order. Mikahl sought out Lord Gregory’s sword in the muck and gore that was spread about the street. It took some effort, but he found it. Amazingly, it wasn’t badly damaged-just a few missing jewels and a gouge in the gold-chased hilt. The blade was still sharp. Mikahl ordered a soldier to find Dreg’s corpse and retrieve the scabbard.
He found Thunder limping and whinnying in pain among a group of other riderless horses. Pulling Ironspike free of its scabbard, he saw that its blade radiated a soft blue glow now that his rage had subsided. With a pat on the destrier’s rump with the flat of the blade, Ironspike discharged its restorative power into the steed. Thunder snorted his relief and nuzzled Mikahl in thanks. Mikahl gave the horse a pat on the neck then went off to lend Ironspike’s power to the injured. He’d done the same thing after he’d recovered from his terrifying battle with Pael. He was glad to help those in need, but Ironspike’s healing power was a double-edged sword, so to speak. If its healing powers were tried on one who was wounded beyond the sword’s power to heal, the sword instantly took that life to ease the suffering. Mikahl found that he had no taste for that sort of thing. Many men who lay dying wanted a priest, or a friend to hear their last words no matter how much pain they were feeling. Mikahl didn’t feel right about taking that little bit of life from them. So he used the blade selectively, on those he felt it could help, and left the others to Spyra’s company cleric and the few godly knights that traveled with the special cavalry.
It was well after dark when they finally got all the prisoners and the injured inside an abandoned stronghold just outside of what used to be Castlemont proper. They were far enough away from the river, and the view of the new Westland watchtowers, that they felt safe from an attack. The stronghold’s outer wall was made of thick stone blocks and easily defendable. They had too many men to put all of them inside the place, though, so many of the uninjured camped outside the walls. Watches were set, and the gate left slightly ajar so that if the zard or the breed did come across the river they could crowd all of the men inside quickly. It wasn’t the perfect place to hole up a makeshift army for the night, but it would do. They still had over three hundred men and fifty prisoners camped a day’s ride to the north at High Crossing. Even if the zard did try to come and surprise them, they could mount a formidable counter-attack.
Mikahl let General Spyra worry about the details of the defense. He had every confidence in the man’s abilities. Mikahl was more worried about Princess Rosa, and how he was going to find a way to get her out of the Dragon Queen’s evil grasp. While that ate up the back of his mind, he was eager to figure out how Lord Gregory’s sword had come to be in Dreg’s possession. He was in no mood for pandering or parley when he went and found the sell-sword prisoners tied up and guarded in a lower chamber of the keep.
There were eighteen prisoners who were not dying or severely injured, eleven of whom were sell-swords. Of these eleven, only seven were involved in Dreg’s mining and slavery enterprise. Mikahl pulled them out for private interrogation. He found a pantry on the same floor as the prisoners. It had a stairway that led up to the kitchens, and that gave him an idea.
The first sell-sword said that a man came through from the north with a big chunk of gold and traded the sword and the gold for a boat, but he didn’t know where the man was going. Mikahl put the tip of Ironspike’s blade to the prisoner’s throat. The man’s eyes went wide, and he began to sweat profusely, especially when he felt the hum of the powerful magical weapon vibrating against his skin. Once Mikahl was certain the man had told him everything he knew, he told him to scream out in agony. When the man was done he sent him up to the kitchens where some soldiers were waiting to watch over him.
The next man to be interrogated had been waiting right outside the door under guard and heard the cries of the man before him. When he came in he was terrified and ready to talk, but to Mikahl’s disappointment he knew less than the first man. His yelling and screaming however, sounded far more agonized and convincing than the first man’s had. The third man named a prisoner who knew the details before Mikahl had even finished the first question. Maxrell Tyne was the name, and he was one of Dreg’s captains.
Maxrell Tyne was frank with Mikahl. He was loyal to the coin, not to Dreg, or any other man.
“You’ll never spend another copper if you don’t tell me everything you know about the man who carried that sword.” Mikahl’s gaze left no room for argument. “You’ll not leave this room.”
Maxrell didn’t disappoint. He told Mikahl everything. “The man with the gold took a boat with a mercenary named Grommen. They are headed to Southport to search for the man’s wife and niece. The man said he found the sword on a body at Summer’s Day. I heard him myself.”
Mikahl was ecstatic. It had to be Lord Gregory. The Lion Lord hadn’t left his sword at Summer’s Day, he had taken it into the mountains. He asked Maxrell for the name the man had given, and when he heard the answer, he was sure beyond all doubt that Lord Alvin Gregory was alive and well, and seeking Lady Trella and Lord Ellrich’s little daughter, Lady Zasha.
Mikahl happily corrected his thought. Zasha wasn’t so little any more. She was a beautiful young lady. He hoped that she and Lady Trella had survived the madness. “You could recognize this Grommen?” he asked.
Maxrell Tyne nodded. Mikahl then made his prisoner an offer that couldn’t be refused.
Mikahl told General Spyra most of his newest plan and the man laughed a deep laugh of joyous mirth. General Spyra was unbelievably happy about his part in the things to come. When he and forty five of his best men rode back into Dreen wearing blue cloaks no one would suspect a thing. The gates to the city would open right up for them. King Broderick would think that his soldiers were home from their treachery, at least until General Spyra took him into custody. After that happened, General Spyra would become the acting ruler of Valleya. He could send for his new wife, Lady Mandary, and she could come live like a queen until Mikahl finished what he was going to do. She would love him for it, he was certain.