Mikahl couldn’t believe he was actually back in Westland. It would have been an emotional moment had he not been so wracked with nerves. He couldn’t understand how the people of Southport were going about their business as if nothing were amiss. There were scaly green zard-men working among the humans, and no one seemed to mind. They were doing the harder labor that the men who’d been drafted into King Glendar’s army had once done. The bustling city seemed to be thriving, and everywhere Mikahl looked he saw the yellow and black lightning star banner fluttering in the breeze.
Mikahl, Maxrell Tyne, and four Highwander soldiers, all dressed in the garb of Dakaneese sell-swords, only garnered the occasional glance from the people. Mikahl was torn between finding Lord Gregory and searching out Princess Rosa. He knew that if he could find Lord Gregory he would gain an adviser who understood both politics and strategy. Lord Gregory could also help him figure out what to do about Rosa, and the Dragon Queen. He had no idea where the Princess had been taken, but he had some information about Lord Gregory’s whereabouts from the mercenary, Tyne, so his course was decided for him. He wasn’t sure Princess Rosa was even in Westland. With Queen Shaella wanting his head so badly, he was keenly aware of his surroundings. He only hoped the Lion Lord hadn’t been caught by the Queen’s soldiers while snooping around looking for Lady Trella.
According to Tyne, if Lady Trella wasn’t a Dakaneese captive, she was most likely a refugee on the Isle of Salazar. A few dozen nobles and merchants had gotten word before Shaella’s attack and had fled Westland by ship. Salazar had taken them in. The Westland nobles that King Ra’Gren successfully ransomed had been sent to the island as well. Tyne knew this because he had escorted a few of them there himself.
Tyne spoke to a man who saw Grommen riding around in a fancy carriage with a secretive person of wealth. The two had stayed at an inn that Mikahl remembered as the Golden Lion, but was now called the Dragon’s Doorstep. Tyne said he hoped to find them still there, but if not, he assured Mikahl he would gather as much information as he could. Mikahl saw no sign of a fancy carriage as they approached the upscale place. When they gained the entrance, Tyne suggested that Mikahl and the other men wait outside. Mikahl had been the King of Westland’s personal squire for several years, and Lord Gregory’s before that. He didn’t want to be recognized. Against his better judgment, he agreed, knowing that if Tyne decided to betray him, he would be in a serious bind.
For a long while they waited near the entryway trying not to look nervous or suspicious. The Highwander soldiers looked as out of place as Mikahl felt. Their fidgeting and pacing seemed to betray them as impostors. The truth was it made them appear angry and impatient. This wasn’t the section of the city where idle sell-swords were welcome, and a nearby candlemaker soon started complaining.
From down the street a sarzard grumbled something in his tongue to a human underling who translated the question to the candlemaker. “What is the issue? These men are obviously waiting for their employer who is inside the inn.”
“They’re scaring away my custom is what they’re doing!” the man responded indignantly.
Mikahl heard the man’s voice over the din and saw the sarzard, and the others gathering around him, staring back at them curiously. Instinctively, his hand reached over his shoulder and fingered Ironspike’s hilt. He didn’t dare pull the sword here. Its powerful magic would draw unwelcome attention to him and his men. Casually, he moved his hand to his hip where Lord Gregory’s sword hung in its scabbard. It was all he could do to keep from drawing it to try and fight his way out of this predicament. The Highwander men were alert now too, but none drew steel. Mikahl’s only comfort was that he knew all it would take was a word for these men to follow his lead.
As the sarzard, and his group, approached, a few possibilities ran through Mikahl’s mind. If they were forced to fight, he thought they could make quick work of the zard-man and his troop. Hopefully they could do it without attracting much attention. They would have to silence the loud merchant who was now pointing and gesturing angrily, pulling passersby into the ordeal. They could make a run for it, but there really was no safe place to run. A human wearing a guard uniform similar to the sarzard listened to the lizard-man hiss and growl something that none of them could understand. He then stepped forward and spoke.
“Sarzard Askolzz said you have to wait somewhere else,” the man said with more than a little uneasiness in his voice. “You’re scaring away the custom.”
Mikahl was relieved that none of his men had drawn a weapon. “But our captain is inside,” Mikahl replied, easing his hand away from Lord Gregory’s weapon. “He should be along soon.”
The man gave him an odd look. Mikahl realized that his accent wasn’t even close to Dakaneese. If anything, it gave him away as a Westlander. The man spoke to the sarzard in a growling series of hisses and spurts. The lizard-man shook his head and replied. The man translated. “He says there are several taverns in the immediate area. One of you can stay and wait for your captain. The others must get out of the street.” The man looked to the sarzard as he clicked and hissed some more. “He says that if you were not here on business he would take your weapons.” The translator swallowed hard then looked Mikahl directly in the eyes. “I would go to the Otter’s Den if I were you. It’s just around the corner there.” The man pointed up the street away from the candle maker’s shop.
Mikahl noticed a crowd gathering at the other end of the block. He nodded and asked one of the soldiers to stay, and then with a nod to the guardsmen, and the sarzard, he led the others up the road to find the Otter’s Den.
The guardsmen had recognized him as a Westlander, he knew, and the look they’d shared conveyed that it was all right. There was something more to the look, and for the first time since being back in Westland, Mikahl got the sense that not everything was going as smoothly as it appeared in the city.
Maybe the people were just bustling along as usual, or maybe they were just pretending to.
The looks they received from the customers at the Otter’s Den showed that their presence was both surprising, and unwelcome. Apparently, Dakaneese sell-swords had the favor of the zard, but not the Westland men. Mikahl could imagine that many of these people’s liege lords, and maybe some of their family members, had been captured for ransom, or sold to Dakahn as slaves. Mikahl took a chance and loudly ordered a round for him and his men. His obviously Westland accent threw the people staring at them out of kilter, but not for long. A pair of intoxicated men started toward the bar with a look of ill-intent in their eyes. Mikahl cursed Maxrell Tyne under his breath. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a brawl with his own people.
“There you are, my lumps!” a loud Dakaneese voice blared out angrily from the open door of the tavern. Mikahl gave a sigh of relief. “There you are searching for the bottom of a cup when we’ve a package to retrieve from Lake Bottom.” The gleam in Tyne’s eyes told Mikahl that his statement wasn’t just intended for the customers of the Otters Den. The man had found out something, and Mikahl felt a glimmer of hope surge through his body.
Grommen couldn’t believe he allowed the Lion Lord to talk him into breaking into the old stronghold at Lake Bottom. Yet here he was, in the late of the afternoon, standing in a darkened chapel, waiting on Lord Gregory to finish a search of his former home’s interior. To Grommen’s surprise, it hadn’t been hard to get in. There was a secret door hidden behind a section of wall that ran double for a short way.
Footsteps sounded outside the chapel and Grommen dropped between a pair of pews and lay still. The door opened and a harsh orange glare shone in for a moment. The torchlight receded as the door closed.
Grommen feared they were already looking for the Lion Lord. His golden cow was probably hiding in an attic, or scooted up under a bed awaiting capture. No, he decided. He had to give the broken down brawler a little more repute. This had been his home since birth. No doubt he knew every crack and cranny of the place. He-
“Hey,” a voice whispered, just above Grommen’s head, causing him to jolt.
The door hadn’t opened again had it? No, not since the torch-light had come through. He would have known by the shadows if someone came in then. His heart was hammering in his chest as he quietly reached for his dagger.
“Where did you go?” the voice whispered again.
Grommen relaxed, it was the Lion Lord, but how had he gotten back into the chapel without alerting him? “I’m here,” he groaned as he got back to his feet. “How did you get back-”
The Lion Lord shushed him. “Follow me.”
They exited the way they came in and, to Grommen’s surprise, two horses waited patiently outside the hidden entry. He could hear shouts and hisses of alarm around the building. A feeling of dread came over him. “What did you do?” he asked.
“I set the barn on fire,” Lord Gregory laughed.
He was in such high spirits that Grommen thought he might have gone mad. “What would you do that for?”
“To cover the escape of a few old friends,” Lord Gregory grinned. “She escaped them Grommen,” he laughed out loud. “She, and Lady Zasha, got away.”
“We’re likely not to get away, man,” Grommen grumbled. “We need to move.”
“Aye,” Lord Gregory nodded. “Follow me.”
To Grommen’s disappointment, instead of going back south into the woods, the Lion Lord headed around the wall toward the front of the keep. Reluctantly, Grommen spurred his horse to keep up with the Mad Lion. He wasn’t about to let a bunch of skeeks kill or capture his monetary future. His blood ran cold when he saw Lord Gregory stop in front of the main gate tower and begin yelling and screaming up at the zard-men posted there. He could tell by the surprise on his companion’s face that Lord Gregory hadn’t expected the gate to open so quickly. The two of them had to dance their horses around the crossbow bolts that were suddenly flying at them. Grommen heeled his horse and caught up with the Lion Lord. He whacked Lord Gregory’s mount on the rump with this meaty hand, but the horse reared up instead of bolting, nearly flinging the Lion Lord to the ground. Lord Gregory’s experience showed through as he held on and soon they were in a headlong gallop that seemed futile at best.
A pair of zards riding one of their huge geka mounts was almost on them, and another geka with four zard-men on its long scaly back wasn’t far behind. Grommen was glad that they ended up fleeing southward. The last thing he wanted to do was go farther into Westland. They ran the horses as fast as they could gallop for a long time and managed to put the scene behind them. Only then did they stop and walk the animals for a while.
The road they took led toward a town called Midway. It edged the western coast of the continent. On their left side was a line of a dense sea-blown forest; on the right, a vast expanse of cobalt and gray that smelled of brine. They stopped and rested in the darkness, but eventually they heard the shouts of the pursuing zard-men calling and they were forced to mount up again. The horses were tired, and the gekas were gaining on them. When dawn finally broke, a glance behind told Grommen they would soon be overrun. Already an errant crossbow bolt had nicked his shoulder. It seemed hopeless to continue fleeing, but neither they, nor the horses, were ready to give up. It wouldn’t matter, he decided. They had little chance of getting away now.
“Look,” Lord Gregory shouted. He was pointing up ahead.
In the distance, a small encampment of men looked to be stirring to see what the mad approach of hooves and claws was about. The lookout was standing and pointing back at them while calling out to his companions. The look of bewilderment on his face turned to drop-jawed shock as Lord Gregory and Grommen raced right past him. Lord Gregory recognized the man, but was so astounded that he didn’t stop until a radiant blue glow lit the morning like a beacon. By the time they reined their horses to a stop, the sound of battle coming from behind was clear.
Maxrell Tyne had gotten the horses and some supplies from the merchant who was unfortunate enough to still honor Dreg’s company some credit. From what the innkeeper had said, the merchant Grommen was escorting was named Ellrich Alvin and he had enquired about the state of affairs at Lake Bottom far too many times for his interest to be just curiosity. It amused Tyne that the sarzard had become so lax in their duty that their queen’s greatest enemies could pass under their slimy noses like they were just sell-swords and merchants.
The group rode out of Southport toward Midway. They could have forced their pace and found an inn at the little town that stood halfway between Southport and Lake Bottom, but they decided to camp along the way instead.
Mikahl chose the last watch of the night because he liked to go through his ritual series of exercises with his sword in the predawn light. Out on the road, away from civilization, he wasn’t afraid to draw Ironspike and work through his positions and repetitions. This was a time of clarity and peace of mind that he couldn’t seem to find elsewhere. That first morning, going through his routine on Westland soil, had been fulfilling. Just knowing that he could get this close gave him hope. Thoughts of how to take his homeland back from the zard began to form. It could be done, he finally decided. And with that certainty came confidence.
They rode through Midway that afternoon and made camp just before dark. Watching the sunset on the Western Sea again, after so long, filled Mikahl with resolve. It was the very same sunset he had seen a million times from the wall of Lake Bottom stronghold, and from the tops of the many towers at Lakeside Castle where he had grown up.
The next morning, after his routine, he’d just finished washing the sweat from his skin when the approach of galloping horses caught his ear. He was glad Ironspike was in its scabbard now, and half thought that maybe its glow had attracted whoever it was that was riding down on them. That wasn’t the case, he learned, when he saw the two men being chased toward the camp by several armed and angry zard-men riding their huge lizards. When he recognized one of the men as Lord Gregory, he decided to end the chase on the spot. Without hesitation, he drew Ironspike and poised to attack.