The Sword And The Dragon (85 page)

Eventually, they overtook the fierce Blacksword soldiers, and gained the castle’s entry. A sleek, black-scaled wyvern came soaring through the space where the depiction of Ironspike’s forging had once been.  From the top of the Royal Tower, King Jarrek urged Queen Willa to come away, while she still could.  She wouldn’t hear of it.

The screams of the people inside the castle were echoing up from below now. The wyvern was loose among them. It was all Willa could do to keep from collapsing in despair. She knew that if something didn’t happen soon, Xwarda was lost. And if Pael took Xwarda, it wouldn’t be long before he found a way to use the Wardstone. She was sworn to fight to protect the Wardstone to the end.  She couldn’t leave, but she could at least send the thousands of people hiding in the tunnels below, on to Jenkanta, were they would at least have a chance to escape Pael’s wrath.

“Go,” she said to King Jarrek sternly. “The people who win free will need strong men to help them survive.”

“I cannot leave you here unguarded, lady,” he replied simply. “I will not.”

“You’re a chivalrous fool,” she told him. “Call down the order to evacuate the refugees then. Tell them to collapse the tunnels as they go.”

Before Pael could hit him with another one of those bone jarring crimson pulses, Mikahl rolled, and twisted to his feet. He still had no breath in his lungs, and his head was spinning, but he knew that if he stood still, he was done for. Another hot red blast streaked toward him, and this time, he knocked it away with Ironspike’s blade, but he was still starting to panic. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for very long. His senses were already starting to fade into blackness. He needed air badly. 

Pael sent another of his pulses. Mikahl tried to deflect this one with the sword, but his oxygen starved lack of coordination, made the attempt futile. The blast hit him, but it was only a searing graze, not a blunt impact. He was lucky. He would have taken the blow full on, had his body not involuntarily hiccupped, and sucked in a much needed gulp of air. 

He couldn’t enjoy his body’s relief, because Pael was already blasting at him again. Twisting out of this missile’s way, Mikahl gulped in another breath, and charged the demon-wizard. Instead of relying on magic, he rode his instinct, and brought on a full-on physical assault with his sword. He slashed, spun, hacked, and thrust, leaving Pael no choice, but to forget his attack, and defend himself. The wizard could hardly keep the wicked steel from his flesh, much less mount an offense. 

For several long moments, Pael thought that he might not survive the attack. The blade only had to touch him for his demon essence to be vanquished. Even worse, he could barely see out of his good eye, and it was next to impossible to tell where the bluish-lavender colored blade was coming from next. Only when Mikahl paused, to glance down at the sprawled form of the hawkling, lying limp, amid a pile of broken glass and splintered wood, did the wizard get the chance to make a move. 

Pael leapt backwards into the air, and came to a hover just out of Ironspike’s range. He sent a crackling ray of viscous, prismatic energy down onto Mikahl, and showered him with the flesh melting stuff. As if he were standing inside a globe of translucent blue glass, the flow of Pael’s magic broke up into a purple swirl, around the Squire-King, leaving him unharmed.

Mikahl used the brief, unexpected shielding, to touch Talon with the tip of Ironspike’s blade. He listened for, then plucked out of the sword’s magical symphony, the melody of healing, and let it flow into the bird. The surge of the song quickly exhausted itself, but Talon still lay there unmoving. The hawkling was dead, and that simple fact, broke something inside Mikahl. Fighting back tears of rage, he clenched his teeth, and spun on the demon-wizard.

Mikahl sent his own, now white-hot, ray of energy up at Pael. His blast met Pael’s, in a concussive showering spray of sparks, and sizzling smoke. The point of contact between the two powerful channels of destructive force, ground, hissed, and popped, but slowly edged towards Pael, as Mikahl’s rage forced it back. Slowly, ever so slowly, the point of contact kept inching closer to the dark wizard. Pael’s ruined face, twisted into panic, as the radiance illuminated his shredded expression. The power of Shokin inside him so feared the magic of the blade, that the demon flared his might, surging back at Mikahl, like some cornered wildling, fighting for its life.

The energy of the demon’s fear began to pour from Pael, and the brilliant sizzling point of contact came racing back at Mikahl. Mikahl’s rage slowed the coming collision of raw power, but there was no way he could stop it. With gritted teeth, clenched muscles, and his whole body as taut and rigid as a steel bar, he prepared for the agony that Pael’s ray surely brought with it. It was all he could do.

Hyden Hawk opened his eyes in darkness. He was on rocky ground. He reached to his back to feel for the pack that held the Night Shard, and panic shot through him, like the crack of a whip. He didn’t feel it there. It was gone. 

He staggered to his feet, and felt a humid, yet cool breeze on his skin. Above the heavy stench of old decay he smelled the earthy fragrance of dense vegetation. Instinctively, he sought out Talon’s vision, but found nothing there. Nothing but more blackness. 

His panic multiplied tenfold. He began to search the darkness with outstretched hands. Where was he? What was happening? What had happened to Talon?  Finding nothing, but the hard rocky surfaces of the boulders and scree that surrounded him, he began to give in to his suddenly frantic emotion. 

Seeing that he was close to stumbling out of one end of her wormhole cavern, Claret spoke to Hyden. 

“I am here,” she hissed.  

Faint tendrils of flame briefly lit the area in front of the dragon’s great red plated head. A crystalline prism of deep, smoky blue had presented itself in that instant as well. The Night Shard was laying before the dragon’s hunkered down bulk, in a smooth section of floor, which was covered with circular etchings of runes.

“I wants you to trust me, Hyden Hawks,” the dragon hissed softly. 

With her words, came the brief glow of the flames that emitted from her cavernous nostrils. Hyden made his way toward her, as she continued to speak. 

“I haves no doubts that you intends to release me from the collars.” Her voice was gravelly and ashen. “Never-the-lessss, I will haves it off, before I finish what you have started. You needs my fire to dissolve yon crystal. Removes the collars, and I will do the deed.”

Hyden stopped in his tracks, and forced his fear, and worry for Talon aside. It took him a few minutes to gain his wits back. He cautiously checked his wrist, to make sure that the collar he’d stolen from Shaella was still there, before he spoke.

“I could will you to do it, through the collar.” His voice wasn’t threatening, just matter-of-fact.

“Yesss, Hyden Hawk, you could.” Her voice hissed, and flames licked the air before her. “But if you do, then you’ll never learns whether you cans trust me or not. You’ll never knows my nature. I would value that bond of – What’s the human words? – Friendships, with one such as you.”

“Aye,” Hyden responded, choosing his words carefully. “I would value such a friendship as well. But if you tricked me in this, then I’m dooming my people to the fate of demon kind’s will.”

“It is no easy choice to trust a dragon,” she chuckled, sending bright bursts of flame rolling out ahead of her. “I will hold no ill will towards you, if you choose nots to do so.” 

She turned, so that both of her luminous amber eyes came to bear on him. He felt, and smelled the hot, reeking heat of her breath on him. 

“It will sadden my fiery heart though, to not be able to call you my friend.”

Hyden thought about Vaegon’s tale of Pratchert, of what Pratchert and the dragon might have spoken of at the Summer’s Day monolith. He wondered what the great Dahg Mahn would do in this situation. He thought of the two young wolves, and how the simple act of saving the mother, had came back to save him in the end. If his god’s gift was to speak, and interact with the animals, then in truth, there really was no choice to make. The feelings he’d felt, when he’d seen the tapestry depicting the collared dragon’s, came back to him. It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of right and wrong.

“Turn your head, then,” Hyden said. 

His decision was made. When she was in position, he had her breathe enough light so that he could see the fastenings on the big, jeweled leather strap. It took some time for Hyden to figure out that opening the clasps was more of a mental exercise, than a physical one. The buckles were linked to his collar magically.  It took some effort, and some trial and error, but finally, he bent the clasps to his will. They came loose, and the heavy collar fell to the floor.

There was a sudden flurry of movement in the new darkness. Hyden was knocked to the floor. He became very tense and aware. He might have just made a horrible mistake. He turned this way and that, looking for some visual sign of his surroundings. Other than the two jagged holes that he knew were the openings into the cavern, nothing was discernible. He could only make out the holes, because the night sky outside, was just a few shades lighter than the pitch dark he was in now.

“Your brother stole my eggs!” Claret growled, in a deep voice that was no longer contained. 

It sounded as if thunder had somehow gained the ability to articulate words. Flames filled the air over Hyden’s head, and he was suddenly very, very afraid.

“Your people enslaved me to guard this portal for countless years, and I was left to helplessly look upon my un-hatched young, hope for a time when I might incubate them, and wean them into freedom.” 

The cavern went black again, as the dragon began drawing in a slow deep breath. 

“I should roast you from your bones, Hyden Hawk Skyler,” she said, as her vast lungs filled to capacity. “As I am not my blood kin, and as their deeds and minds are not my own, I’ll not holds you to blame for the actions of your blood kin.” She paused, and her huge yellow eyes loomed down at him. “Always remember who your true friends are, Hyden Hawk,” she commanded. “Now, step aside, and shelter yourself, lest I roast you by mistake.”

Before Queen Willa let herself be dragged back down into the castle, she yanked the silver tipped Horn of Doon from her neck, and hurled it over the tower’s edge. She cursed herself a fool for even entertaining the idea that the ages old promise of the dwarves might be remembered, much less fulfilled, during this time of great need.

In the distance, the bright colorful display of Mikahl’s battle with Pael recaptured King Jarrek’s attention enough that Willa wriggled free of his grasp. Both of them moved back towards the parapet to watch. From the air just above Mikahl, red streaks collided into a dome of blue, and radiated flares of lavender and purple, like some spectacular flaming star. It was impossible to tell who was who, or what was actually happening, but in the moments that followed, it became clearer.

Jarrek and Willa could see that Pael was hovering and attacking. Mikahl’s shield was diverting the demon wizard’s energy somewhat. Mikahl returned the attack, with a white-hot beam of his own, and when the two forces met, the area around the two combatants was illuminated by an explosion of radiant light. 

Anyone with the vantage of height, could see them clearly now. They might as well have been battling under the midday sun. Mikahl’s rage pushed forward, but was forced back by a surge of demon might, and evil will. The bloody, prismatic beam of Pael’s, swallowed up Mikahl’s force, and came up against the glassine dome of his blue shielding energy again, only this time, it shattered the protective globe, into a shower of hurtling, glowing debris. 

Pael’s crimson ray didn’t stop there: it consumed Mikahl. 

After a bright cloud of sparkling, white smoke-like energy swirled up, from where the Squire-King had just stood, blackness, and the sounds of the battle raging below on the castle’s grounds wafted up, and once again consumed the night. The light of hope that Mikahl had represented had been extinguished, and King Jarrek had to catch Queen Willa, before she fell to her knees in despair.

Mikahl felt the power of the demon’s will shatter his magical shield. He felt his magical armor absorb as much of the power as it could, before it burned away in a white smoking cloud of sparks. Then, he felt the demon wizard’s ray upon his flesh, and felt it bore into him, to the very marrow of his bones, but only for an instant. 

For that fleeting moment, he had felt the horror and pain of a million lifetimes, but that moment was over now. He heard the muffled grunting cough of Pael landing in the rubble. He heard the dark wizard cry out in rage, pain, or some other powerful emotion, and when he opened his eyes, he saw Ironspike lying on the ground before him. When he reached to pick it up, his muscles felt wrong, and stiff, and a tremendous pain tore through his body. He felt as if he had been cooked. 

He remembered Loudin of the Reyhall, and the agonizing pain he must have felt as he clung to the blade, trying to save it from the hellcat. He remembered Vaegon’s upper half laying among the rocks, and Grrr’s valiant leap into the jaws of the Choska to save him. Knowing that the hoard of pain that he was feeling couldn’t possibly equal the sacrifices that had been made for him, for this very moment, he gritted his teeth, lurched forward, and grabbed the leather wrapped hilt of his father’s sword.

At once, Ironspike’s harmonic symphony filled Mikahl’s ears again, and he was drowned in cool relief. His pain was quickly vanquished, and a rush of energy took its place. Gathering his wits, he found his feet, and surveyed the scene around him.

Not ten paces away, Pael was trying to get back to his feet. In the bright, blue glow of his blade, he could see Pael’s good eye rolling around wildly in its socket. He could see the clenching, and unclenching of the demon-wizard’s jaw, and the way the veins stood out on his neck. Something was wrong with him. Pael seemed to be caught up in some inner struggle, and was being tormented by it. Mikahl didn’t hesitate to wonder why the pale-skinned demon wizard was in such a state. He just raised Ironspike, and charged.