High King Mikahl, King Jarrek, and General Spyra rode three abreast across the wagon-bridge. Not far behind them came their squires. The Pixie River was running fat and swift through the wreckage that was once the town of Tarn. The river flowed out of the Evermore Forest southward and created the border between the kingdoms of Highwander and Seaward. The wagon bridge was wooden and strong, but not strong enough for two hundred Blacksword soldiers and three hundred archers to just come barreling across. There were a few footbridges as well. The three commanders, Mikahl, Jarrek and Spyra, found an old maple full of spring leaves and sat in the saddle under it conversing as the slow process of crossing the men into Seaward began.
“How far is it to Tip?” Mikahl asked the General. Tip was where they would cross out of Seaward into the kingdom of Valleya.
“A week at this pace.”
Barely half a hundred people were left in Tarn. They stopped rebuilding and planting to watch the procession cross the river. A crier had come through earlier to make sure that the way was clear and that the good folk wouldn’t be terrified. They’d been through enough already. King Broderick and Queen Rachel’s combined army had first attacked Highwander here. The fight had been bloody, and ultimately had only served to add more corpses to Pael’s undead army. Not much was left. Tarn had once been able to boast almost a thousand people, but no more. Those who hadn’t died in the first attack were ridden over when the undead came. The ones who survived were either lucky, or fled the mayhem for the forest. The Highwander city of Plat looked about the same when the procession had passed through the day before yesterday.
“We’re back-tracking the demon-wizard’s path of destruction,” said King Jarrek. “It looks like war tore through here, but something’s missing and I just can’t put a finger on it.”
“The bodies are missing. No grave stones even,” Mikahl said somberly. “Pael raised the dead and marched them to Xwarda to fight us.”
“Seeing this is a powerful reminder of what the people have been put through,” Jarrek mused aloud. “If King Broderick had a lick of sense he would have come to Xwarda so that you wouldn’t show up at his door with all of this fresh on your mind.”
“He’s afraid that Queen Willa will lock him away in her dungeon, I think,” said General Spyra.
“He is a coward. He fled his own castle at Dreen and left his people to face Pael,” Jarrek reminded them. “He ordered the small folk inside the red wall and then fled south to Strond. I think that’s where Brady said he went.”
“Brady is your man, the one who braved the enemy lines to warn them?” asked the General.
“Yes. Targon magicked me and a few others out of Wildermont, but barely,” Jarrek said. “I felt it only right to warn the people of Dreen of what was coming. I ordered Brady to ride to them. He stayed and fought with the Valleyans until the dawn broke and the dead started rising. He knew that I was headed to Xwarda with Targon so he rode ahead of Pael to warn everybody. He ran smack into King Broderick and Queen Rachel’s army at Plat. He was captured, but then escaped. He showed up in Xwarda at the palace gates in the middle of Pael’s attack, bewildered and half starved.”
“The boy’s got heart,” Spyra said.
“Aye,” agreed Mikahl. “Who managed to capture him?”
“Blacksword soldiers, I think,” answered Jarrek. “They thought he was one of King Broderick or Queen Rachel’s spies, I’m sure. I think that was why he was so confused. He was trying to warn them all that the dead were about to attack them, but no one would listen to him. His father was killed when Pael brought down the towers at Castlemont. He and I were fighting just a few hundred yards away.” Jarrek paused a moment picturing it all in his head. “I don’t think I want to talk about it anymore, if you’ll excuse me.” Before Mikahl or the General could respond he spurred his horse away.
“I don’t envy that one,” General Spyra said, after King Jarrek was gone. “There’s a long, hard road ahead of him. And you’ve got your work cut out for you as well. What will you do after King Broderick licks your boots?”
“Queen Willa would have me ride down to Seaward City to swoon over Princess Rosa, but I’m not sure if I will. I have a mind to go to O’Dakahn and see what this King Ra’Gren is all about. Maybe if I meet with him we can spare some future bloodshed.”
“Ra’Gren is about nothing but gold and power.” General Spyra actually spat his distaste for the man into the dirt. “The whole kingdom of Dakahn is run by greedy, pitiless overlords, and their king is the worst slaver of them all. You’ll have to either take Dakahn by force, or get really sneaky, unless you want to buy the freedom of the Wildermont people back. One thing about Dakahn is everything there has a price.”
“I guess I haven’t decided my course of action after we deal with King Broderick and Dreen.” Mikahl tried his best not to sound disturbed by the General’s lack of optimism. “I know you have a new wife back in Xwarda. I won’t keep you away from her any longer than I must.”
General Spyra beamed at her mention. He was proud of his pretty young wife, Lady Mandary. She was half his age and pretty as a picture. Her true affection was far more than an old, balding man of his girth could have hoped for, but yet he had it. She said that he was her hero. He had fought bravely in the battle against Pael, and Queen Willa had rewarded him publicly, but being his plump little wife’s hero was his favorite thing these days, that and trying to make a little baby general or two to carry on his name.
Thunder rumbled in the distant southern sky. A dark gray line of clouds had presented itself and appeared to be moving swiftly toward them. It was common enough this time of year for the sea to blow its wrath this far inland, but since they’d come all this way without bad weather they’d hoped to avoid it altogether.
“It’ll catch us as soon as we get moving again,” Spyra observed. He pointed to the empty dwellings around them. “We may as well spend the night here and let it pass over. If we don’t, the men will just be wet and slower on the morrow.”
“That’s fine with me, General,” Mikahl said. “I’m in no hurry to get my boots licked. You’re the only one with a reason to hurry home.” Mikahl laughed ironically. “By the gods, General, between you, Jarrek, and me, you’re the only one with a home left.”
Mikahl rode over to King Jarrek, leaving the General to call out the orders to make camp among the empty houses and shops in the little town. As he approached, Jarrek forced a smile, letting Mikahl know that his company was welcome. The two of them were silent for a while after they dismounted. It was after their assigned squires took their horses, and they were alone again, that Jarrek finally spoke.
“I’m thinking of riding on with my group,” he said seriously. “We were going to split up when we get to Tip anyway. This…” he paused and indicated the Highwander soldiers who were starting to set up camp. “It’s slowing us down. I have thousands of people under the whip, yet we’re moving as slow as snails.”
“I think that maybe you should then,” Mikahl told him. “Your men are not needed here. Take them and ride like the wind. I’ve got five hundred of Queen Willa’s soldiers and General Spyra to watch my back.”
“Yes,” King Jarrek grinned broadly at the High King. The smile wasn’t forced this time. “We just might do that, but we’ll at least ride this weather out with you before we go.”
The rain came hard, and the long dreary night was filled with wicked lightning flashes and booming thunder. It reminded Mikahl of what his final battle with Pael had looked and sounded like. He tossed and turned, thinking about what he would do after he was finished in Dreen. He could ride south and help King Jarrek free the slaves, or he could ride west to the Leif Greyn River and see if he could spy out anything about his homeland, and the dragon-less Dragon Queen who’d taken it over. He didn’t make a decision, and eventually he fell asleep, but not for long.
King Jarrek woke him. Outside his pavilion tent, Mikahl saw that the rain had stopped. It was still dark and cloudy, though, and Jarrek looked to be ready to ride.
“If you want something useful to do, Mik,” Jarrek started in a whisper. It had been awhile since anybody had called Mikahl ‘Mik,’ but it didn’t offend him. In fact, the use of the nickname gathered his full attention. Kind Balton and Lord Gregory had always called him Mik. Loudin of the Reyhall had as well. All those men he had loved and trusted. He felt he was safe in putting King Jarrek among them in his heart.
“When you’re done with that craven king,” Jarrek continued, “ditch the general, but keep thirty swords and thirty bows. Take them and backtrack Pael’s path through the Wilder Mountains. You’ll come out of them just north of Castlemont proper. Ride down on Dreg the slaver who Princess Rosa told us about and free those folks he’s working in the mines. It’ll give you a chance to get a look at Locar and the breed giant lord who is supposedly ruling there.”
“Aye,” Mikahl nodded, and clasped his friend’s hand. “I may do just that. You be careful in O’Dakahn. That’s a command.”
“If I fail, Mik…” King Jarrek’s voice trailed off, but his eyes met Mikahl’s and the desperation in them was plain to see. The man cared deeply for his people. Mikahl nodded that he understood what hadn’t been said, that if the unthinkable happened, he would find a way to finish what Jarrek was about to start. Then the Red Wolf, King of Wildermont, whirled and stalked off into the night.
General Spyra was full of questions the next day, but Mikahl just told him the facts. Yes, King Jarrek and his men rode south to O’Dakahn. No, he hadn’t decided what he was going to do after Dreen. “Most likely, General,” Mikahl said. “I’ll send you and most of the escort back to Xwarda. I’ll stay on a bit in Dreen, I think, and test King Broderick’s loyalty, as well as his patience. If it comes to anything with Dakahn, I’ll have what’s left of the Valleyan host at my command.”
His words hadn’t really been intended as a jab, but they came off as one. It wasn’t until five days later, when they rode into Tip under the midday sun, that the General bothered to speak to him on a personal level again.
“Since we’ve made exceptional time, Your Highness,” the General’s expression was pinched-he clearly did not want to be asking anything of Mikahl -“I ask that we let the men recuperate the rest of the day. The captains have asked me to see if they might hunt the tip of the forest so that we can all feast on fresh game this night instead of rations.”
“A hunt?” Mikahl’s grin was wide and genuine. “That’s an excellent idea, sir. The best idea I’ve heard since I can remember.”
Tip was located on both banks of the Southron River where it flowed out of the Evermore Forest. The forest reached southward along the banks and the town had been built at the forest’s most southern finger-like point, thus earning itself the name Tip.
Like the Pixie River, the Southron River created a natural border. West of the Southron River was Valleya, and between the Southron and Pixie Rivers lay Seaward. The town sat on both sides of the bridge, but the Valleyans had swarmed in after Pael’s horde had come through and taken most of the Seaward side over.
Since the Valleyans had taken over the town, it had started to be rebuilt before winter came. While Dreen, Valleya’s capital city, had been destroyed by Pael’s rampage, the rest of the kingdom of Valleya had been left untouched. There was no shortage of men and resources. New building had increased the place to a size bordering on city status. Nevertheless, the thick run of the Evermore Forest that clung to the river north of the city was still rumored to be a hunter’s dreamland. Apparently the vast and sudden increase in populace hadn’t scared away any of the game-at least that’s what the locals were saying. They also warned that some dark beast had taken up residence in the woods and that a few men had gone missing because of it.
Mikahl borrowed a longbow and a quiver of arrows from one of the archers, then set out on the Valleyan side of the river with a group of Highwander archer captains. General Spyra stayed in town and kept everything moving along in an orderly fashion. The Seaward side of the forest was hunted by the remaining archery captains, one of whom boasted the official rank of Queen’s Ranger. Needless to say the ranger’s experience paid off. The group hunting the Seaward side of the river returned an hour before dusk with two does and a stag draped proudly across the backs of their horses.
Open cook fires dotted the night, and the smell of fresh cooked meat filled the air. The men were all in good spirits, save for General Spyra. The sun was going down and the High King was nowhereto be seen. The General was sworn to protect High King Mikahl, but couldn’t do so if he didn’t know where he was. One of the Valleyan horse ranchers, obviously a wealthy man by the size of his entourage, approached the General as full dark was setting in. The man had a concerned look on his face as he spoke.
“There’s a devil boar loose out there, General,” the man said, indicating the Valleyan side of the river where the High King and his group had gone off to hunt. “It’s as big as a wagon and evil. It’s killed a half dozen men since the snows melted. It’s been out there all winter. Them men of yours might have gotten into a pickle with it.”
Spyra paled. He knew exactly what was out there in the forest. The demon-boar, and a few of the wyverns Pael had summoned into the battle of Xwarda, had escaped the might of Mikahl’s sword. The wyverns had flown away, but the demon-boar had fled into the Evermore Forest near Xwarda. It had taken wounds from his men in the battle, and they’d assumed it found a place in the forest to die. The Queen’s Rangers searched after the snows melted. It was no wonder they found no sign of the beast. It had come west.
The General took a few deep breaths, gathered his cool, and began yelling out orders in the darkness. It took a few minutes longer than it should have, due to the relaxed state of his men, but the General’s Blacksword cavalry formed up as ordered, each with a torch blazing in hand.
“Where to, sir?” a sergeant at the front of the group asked. His horse was prancing and whinnying.
Just then, an explosion of sapphire light erupted from the middle of the forest to the north. It was followed by a sizzling crackling sound. The light shifted from blue to lavender then to a deep angry crimson. In the shocked silence that followed, the sound of faraway voices shouting, and a harrowing scream carried to Spyra and his men. Then the distant red illumination sputtered and failed, leaving the forest bathed in silent, silvery moonlight.
“To the High King!” the General yelled at the top of his lungs as he heedlessly spurred his horse toward the ruckus in the woods. There was no doubt what the source of the colorful light had been; all of the Blacksword soldiers had seen Mikahl’s infamous sword Ironspike lighting up the night while he was fighting the demon-wizard Pael. The question was, why had the light suddenly sputtered and disappeared, and whose voice had that been screaming out in such horrible agony?