“The dragon comes!” Queen Willa hissed at Hyden Hawk.
“Aye,” Hyden replied simply. He gave her a grim smile. “Cast no spells, lady. Tell the guard to stand down.”
“You’d let it roast us?” she asked incredulously.
His scowl silenced any further protests, and she did as he bade her.
“Show no fear. When it is upon us, signal me.”
He put an arrow to the string of the old elven longbow, and started toward the edge of the tower. Once he was at the parapet, he ducked behind a crenel, and set his eyes on the frightened Queen. In his head, he spoke to the dragon again.
Shaella screamed at Claret vehemently for flying her away from the one on the fiery Pegasus. Claret just hissed, and suffered the anguish of Shaella’s punishment through the collar. She was glad that Shaella was yelling and screaming at her, because it kept Shaella from hurting her with something far worse. Claret also knew that Shaella could only do so much punishing while they were in flight, so she went to investigate the strange and powerful voice that was calling her away. It hurt her terribly to go against the will of her rider, but the promises the voice was offering her, were too great to be ignored.
Once Shaella saw the Witch Queen of Highwander, alone on the tower rooftop, gawking up like a child, she forgot the dragon’s punishment altogether, and grew excited. She could complete her father’s conquest, and earn his respect and admiration right here. She urged Claret to take her around the tower. She wanted to keep the witch from reaching the stair house when she snapped out of her stupor, and made a run for it.
To Shaella’s growing frustration, Claret didn’t circle the tower as she had commanded, but the Witch Queen didn’t break and run either. Instead, Claret made as if to land there, at the tower’s parapet, but stopped at the last moment, to hold in a slow hover. Shaella shrieked out curses at the dragon, as the Witch Queen waved her arms crazily. Shaella cast a spell, and was about to lash out with a blast of static energy, when her heart was stopped dead in her chest. She saw Gerard rise up from behind one of the crenels and loose an arrow directly at her. Realizing that it was Hyden, Gerard’s brother, and not her lover, she tried desperately to get the dragon to dip, or sway her out of the arrow’s path. Nothing happened. She couldn’t find the will to draw breath, as the steel-tipped shaft came flying at her. She was shocked to feel it only graze her just under the ear, and she felt lucky for a fleeting moment.
In that fleeting moment, another realization struck her. He hadn’t meant to kill her. But why?
Between the thumping beats of Claret’s wings, she heard the proud and fierce cry of a hawkling, as it came shooting down out of the sky, right past her. It didn’t stop. It kept diving into the shadows below. Suddenly, she was afraid. She gathered all the persuasive power she could muster, and urged Claret to turn away, but the dragon didn’t budge. Then, she tried sending the dragon a clearer, and more painful command through the collar, but found that somehow, her link with the fire wyrm had been broken. In a panic, she reached to her neck.
Claret felt the connection sever, and roared out with delight. The menacingly triumphant sound was so loud, and powerful, that the Royal Tower itself trembled, as if it were afraid.
Shaella began to cast a spell. Hyden saw this, and loosed a second arrow at her. This one struck the staff she held, just a fingers breath above her hand. The thumping impact of it caused her to lose her concentration, and forget the spell she was casting.
“Spell the rider!” Hyden called out to Queen Willa. “Bind her, if you can.”
At once, Willa did as she was told. The presence of the dragon had her in such a state of terror, that if Hyden had told her to jump off the tower she might have done it.
Half a heartbeat later, invisible ropes lashed around Shaella, and drew tight. Her arms, and her staff, were pulled hard against her breasts. When she tried to voice a protest, she found that her mouth was gagged as well. She could do nothing, but glare at Hyden as he motioned for the dragon to land.
Willa backed away in utter fear. Claret’s great bulk, took up three quarters of the tower top, and that was with the dragon sitting upright, and the entire length of its long, thick tail, dangling over the parapet. The tower itself seemed to groan with the weight of her. A glance at where the stair guard had been revealed only empty space. Willa couldn’t blame the man. Running from a beast that had slitted yellow eyes bigger than wagon-wheels, and teeth as long as a grown man’s legs, couldn’t really be considered dereliction of duty, could it?
In her terror, Willa marveled at the way the morning sun reflected brilliantly off the dragon’s palm-sized scales, and turned them golden; and the way heat, shimmered and radiated off of its body, as if it were a great furnace. A fluttering of little wings, Talon the hawkling’s wings, caught her eye. The bird had something clutched in its claws. It struggled to carry the object up and over to Hyden. He took the offering, and smiled deviously. Talon then flew up, and landed on the half bald head of the dragon rider. He perched there, and puffed out his feathered chest, as proudly as if he were a dragon himself.
Hyden fumbled with the object Talon had delivered to him. After a moment, he had wrapped Shaella’s collar around his wrist, and tied it off, using his teeth. At once, the mighty dragon lowered its head, and extended a fore claw out, to form a crude stair step up to its back. At that moment, Queen Willa had no doubt that Hyden Hawk was destined to be a wizard of Dahg Mahn’s caliber, if not something even greater. It never occurred to her, that Hyden had taken the Dragon Queen’s dragon without using any form of magic whatsoever. All he had used were his wits, and his skill with the bow. Talon had done the rest.
Hyden shouldered Vaegon’s bow, climbed onto the dragon’s back, and sat behind Shaella. He gave Willa a confident smile, and sent Talon down to land on her shoulder.
“Hold off the demon-wizard as long as you can,” he called down to her.
He reached back, and patted the Night Shard in his backpack. “If this works, he’ll be nothing, but a plain, old wizard when I’m done.”
With that, the dragon leapt into the air, and veered sharply away to the west. On wing beats, that made the very air shudder, it shot off at an uncanny speed, and disappeared into the distance.
After Pael saw Shaella and her dragon winging away to the west, he vented his anger on the outer city. He thought she was abandoning him.
He cast a spell that buckled the earth away from him, like ripples from a pebble thrown into a pond. A great circle rose and fell, crumbling all in its path as it went. Buildings were leveled, and horses and men were thrown, or crushed. A large portion of the secondary wall, and the inner city beyond it, fell into ruin. For a few moments, the rumbling quake seemed to stop the whole battle. Pael stood, looking up from the epicenter of the destruction. He was seething. His normally slick, white head was aglow with rage, and his arms flailed about like some mad conductor, as he cast spell after spell after spell.
In the air, Mikahl was in pursuit of the Choska. The big, black demon could barely stay ahead of the flaming bright horse. From the ground, Pael sought to change the odds a bit.
Several back clouds misted into being, around the angry wizard. Three wyverns took form, and a razor-tusked beast, that looked somewhat like a wild boar, but was as big as an ox, snorted and stomped behind him. At once, the wyverns took to the air. The tusked beast charged off, through the rubble-strewn streets in search of men to kill.
Pael’s arm suddenly shot forth, pointing up into the sky, and a sizzling bolt streaked away, brighter than the daylight, from his fingertip. It took Mikahl by surprise, and sent him tumbling through space, away from the dying flames of his bright horse.
At once, the Choska demon dove away if from its pursuer, and swooped down to land beside its master. Pael leapt up onto its lowered neck, and together, they rose back up into the sky.
For a few long heartbeats, Mikahl fell, like a sack of grain thrown from a window. He had almost let go of Ironspike, but somehow managed to avoid that fatal mistake. With its magical symphony still in his head, he managed to recall the Bright Horse into being. The fiery Pegasus reformed between his legs and caught his fall, but it took a moment to get reoriented with the world, and in that time, Pael, and the Choska, gained position on them.
It had taken only seconds for Pael to turn the tables on Mikahl. The chaser became the chased. It was all Mikahl could do to hold on, as the demon wizard’s pursuit forced him to shake away the cobwebs Pael’s lightning had burned into his brain. He needed to think of a way to avoid being overtaken. He could feel the evil behind him. It was a nauseating, icy feeling that grew with the proximity of the wizard on his heels. The bright horse shot left, and then right, into a sharp banking turn. Suddenly, something in Mikahl’s brain fell into place.
The thing called Pael, on the back of the Choska, was the dark enemy that had sent the hellcat, and the wyvern. It was Pael who King Balton had sent him away from. It was Pael who had poisoned his King, and misled Prince Glendar, all those years. It was Pael, who had caused Lord Gregory, Loudin of the Reyhall, Grrr, and Vaegon to die. All along, it had been Pael. He knew it now. His blood surged past the white-hot simmer it had previously been, and turned into a violent boil. Ironspike’s radiant glow changed with his anger, into a blinding, silvery beacon in the sky. He was no longer the chased. He was in control now. He was leading Pael out past the city’s outer wall, away from the populace. If Pael was pursuing him, Mikahl knew that he wasn’t in the city wreaking havoc.
Mikahl closed his eyes, and let the bright horse gallop through the sky on his own head. He searched Ironspike’s symphony for what he might need, what he might use, to bring Pael down. The words of King Balton, the words of his father, echoed like timpani drums, in time with the harmonies in his head. “Think. Then act! Think. Then act! Think. Then act!”
King Jarrek fought like a hero, to let the soldiers of the Blacksword get inside the secondary wall. He had almost gotten trapped in the doing. Then, General Spyra had charged out, with a group of cavalry, and with the brilliant use of their long pikes, won the red armored Wolf King and his group free of the undead that had surrounded them.
King Jarrek had no sooner gotten himself to safety, and had his wind back, when he heard the shouts that the secondary wall had been breached to the north. He was getting too old for this sort of thing. His bones ached, and his muscles sang. He decided to go find Queen Willa, and see if he might help her find a way to survive the coming madness. These men were brave and true, and fighting with all they had in them, but Jarrek didn’t even dare hope that any of them would survive.
Pael, and his Choska demon, and now several slick, black, acid-mouthed wyverns, seemed to be everywhere. He wasn’t sure he could even survive the trip back to the castle. At least the dragon had fled. He was curious to know what happened at the top of the Royal Tower. They had all thought that Queen Willa had been lost, until she stood atop a crenel, and gave the official signal to close, and lock the secondary gates.
As King Jarrek approached the inner gate, the gate to the castle grounds, half a hundred bowmen leaned down and took aim at him. The Gate Captain had a panicky look about him.
“Remove the helm!” he ordered.
King Jarrek did so, and recognized the fear in the captain’s eyes when he scowled up into them.
“Gates…Open the gates!” the captain screamed. “Go Tuck! Go Walden! Find the red-armored impostor! He might be after the Queen! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”
Jarrek gave the Gate Captain a puzzled look, then squeezed through the slight crack of the still opening portal, and wasn’t surprised when it started closing just as soon as he was clear. Save for the large formations of soldiers waiting to fortify the wall, the fountain pond area, and the forested park around it, seemed as peaceful as could be.
Looking back up at the scared captain, Jarrek called out. “What is it, man? What’s got your gunkin?”
“He was clad in red armor as you are,” the stricken captain replied. “I only now noticed the wolf skull on your helmet. Nobody questioned his cause, because we thought he was you. I should’ve known he wasn’t right. He had the smell of death upon him something awful. I thought it might just be from the battle, but now he’s gone to the castle. He might try for the Queen.”
Both of Jarrek’s Redwolf guardsmen had been on the wall with the archers when the battle had begun, and neither of them had been wearing their heavy plate armor. Jarrek had seen that whole section of wall blasted away. It was impossible for either of them to have come through here wearing their Redwolf armor. An excited tingle of hope started to creep into his heart, but then, just as quickly, the feeling turned to concern. “The smell of death upon him,” the captain had said.
At once, King Jarrek bolted after Tuck and Walden. He ran as fast as he could, in his loud, awkward fitting shell. He didn’t relish the idea of facing Brady Culvert in battle, even if the young man was already dead, but he would. He’d be damned if he’d let one of his men, one of his best friend’s sons, leave a taint upon the honor of his elite guard. It saddened him to think that the lad had been turned into one of Pael’s undead things, and he found he had to swallow back a lump, and blink away the moisture from his eyes, as he ran.
He caught up with them on an otherwise empty stretch of tree-lined cobble path, and was only surprised by the smell of the youngest, and most fearsome of his Redwolf guards.
The young man looked half dead, but he wasn’t. He held his helmet in his hands, and was only staring blankly at the two guardsmen, who had drawn their swords, and cornered him against the trees. His armor was filthy with gore and caked blood, and there was no sword in his scabbard. He looked haggard, and pale under all the grime. His bloodshot eyes were rimmed crimson, and sunken deep into their sockets. He made no move to attack, nor did he defend himself. When King Jarrek stepped up to him, Brady began to cry, and crumbled to his knees, sobbing. The young man only smelled of rotten flesh. Jarrek had no doubt that Brady was still alive. What he had come through to get there, or how he had gotten through the ranks of undead, and ended up at the castle’s inner gates, Jarrek couldn’t begin to guess, so he didn’t try. He helped the boy to his feet, and commanded the two gatesmen to bear the stench, take a place on each side of Brady, and escort him into the castle, to be cleaned up and cared for.
“It’s all right now, Brady,” Jarrek said the fatherly lie, to comfort his longtime friend’s obviously distraught son. “It’s going to be all right now.”
Jarrek just wished he could find away to believe the words himself.
When Mikahl suddenly turned, and pointed his sword at Pael, and let loose a pulsing magical blast, it took the demon-wizard by surprise. The energy hit Pael full in the face, sending him spinning head over boot heels backwards, off the Choska. The winged demon was forced to dive quickly to avoid a collision with Ironspike, or Mikahl’s Bright Horse. Pael righted his tumble and came to a hover in midair. His hands churned with blinding speed the makings of another spell. Mikahl listened to the symphony of the sword, and made ready. It pleased him, and gave him hope, to see blood dripping from the wizard’s nose and mouth.
The streak of white energy that shot from Pael’s hands struck the magical shield before Mikahl, with violent force. Though it brought him or his flaming steed no direct harm, it drove them backwards through the air with tremendous power. When the spell subsided, Mikahl returned the attack, and once again, Pael was caught in a moment of shock.
The demon-wizard couldn’t believe that Mikahl had survived the amount of raw energy he had just released at him. Pael’s own magical shield came up a heartbeat too late, and he found himself being yanked toward the ground, as if by a spring-loaded cable.
The Choska swept by Mikahl so close, that he felt its claws graze across his skin. He twisted, and stabbed at the beast with Ironspike’s white-hot blade, but only found thin air.
Pael somehow undid what the sword had done to him, just before he slammed into the earth. He hesitated there, just above a litter of charred, mangled bodies, trying to gather his composure. The Choska quickly flew around, and under him. Once he was back on it, and situated in a riding position, he twisted, turned, and scanned the skies. To his maddening surprise, the Squire, and the flaming Pegasus were nowhere to be seen.
For the first time, since he had absorbed Shokin’s Power into himself, Pael found that he was concerned, if not a little afraid. He directed the Choska back towards the city, cautiously searching the sky as he went. He spat thick, dark blood from his mouth with disgust, as his eyes darted frantically to and fro. Over there, then below him, he craned his neck, and twisted to see if he was being pursued now. He didn’t like this anymore. He should disappear too, he told himself. He could do that quite effectively, but not just yet. He wanted to make a lasting impression on the battlefield, so that his presence would remain fresh in the mind of the Witch Queen, and every single one of her Blacksword soldiers.
The Choska circled high, and then came down, streaking across the front of the castle. As he passed them, Pael blasted away the huge stained glass depictions that had shown over Xwarda for centuries. Like an explosion of jewels, millions of glittering, but deadly fragments, exploded out across the forest park, into and over Whitten Loch, and out into the inner city, where battle upon battle still raged wildly. Then Pael came around again. The Choska was flying at neck breaking speed. From its back, Pael sent a wicked jet of wizard’s fire out into the park. A huge swathe of trees, turned from green to brown, then to black, before erupting into bluish-green flames. Smoke began to fill the air, and nearly a quarter of the park was ablaze in demon’s fire.
Pael laughed maniacally at the potency of his display, and reveled in the rush of all his demonic power. Already, he had all but forgotten Mikahl and the Bright Horse. It was a costly mistake.
From out of nowhere, Mikahl shot across the Choska’s path. Pael ducked, and let his magical shields protect him. After they passed, it took the wizard a few, long moments to realize that most of the Choska demon’s head was no longer attached to its body. Ironspike had not only decapitated the creature, it had taken its soul.
The body was streaking towards the earth now, on twitching muscle-locked wings, while the head tumbled away in a spray of thick, black blood. Pael, now fully aware of the situation, transported himself away, just before the crash. The lifeless, bat-like hulk, hit the fountain lake in a splashing tumble of wings and claws. It skipped across the water, like a poorly thrown stone, and then crunched to a stop, against the retaining wall, near the swan shelter.
Queen Willa stood speechless, looking down from her tower top, as a cheer rang through her troops, and the dark blood of the winged demon-beast, slowly turned the clear pristine water of Whitten Loch a deep, inky black.
When she looked out at the many battles being fought across the inner city, she saw the afternoon sun play upon the millions of tiny colored fragments of stained glass. Such beauty amid such horror, she thought. The dead, the dying, and the ones, who refused to fall, attackers and defenders alike, hacking, stabbing, and killing each other, in the middle of a field, full of sparkling jewels.
As if in agreement with the sick irony of the scene before them, Talon cooed from her shoulder, and bobbed his feathered head.