Hargh’s wild-eyed horse went screaming and bucking towards the trees. The cool rain was no comfort to its burning, dissolving hide. Already, a large swathe of its flesh was corroding away where the wyvern’s blood had splashed it. It didn’t look like the animal would suffer much longer.
King Jarrek, and the other red-armored guardsman, Markeen, went charging towards the struggling wyvern with their swords held high, hoping to kill it before it regained its senses.
Captain Proct checked the tension on the bow string. He almost regretted that it was still holding true. He put an arrow to his string and rode swiftly over to the writhing, growling body of his longtime friend. Hargh’s face was a misshapen, acid-eaten ruin, and Proct mercifully put an arrow through the man’s breastplate into his heart.
Just as King Jarrek and Markeen gained the wyvern, it rose up onto its hind legs. One of its wings was folded in naturally, but the other was half open, and twisted skyward. It scrambled forward at the approaching men, snapping its teeth and hissing. The wyvern’s one good fore claw was raised to defend itself. The other dangled uselessly from a small thickness of bloody sinew.
“I thought I’d never wish to see a pike again!” King Jarrek yelled, letting his memory of King Glendar’s beheadings fuel his courage and anger.
Wishing he had one of Glendar’s pikes now, he broke away from Markeen, and started around the creature’s right side.
“Go around it, Markeen, so it can’t see us both at the same time!”
Markeen did as he was ordered, and was rewarded for it by a jarring crack across the side of his helmet by the wyvern’s thick tail. The force of the blow nearly knocked him from his horse. For a long moment, all he could see was blackness, filled with tiny exploding stars. In a berserk rage, he shook it off, and went charging in at the creature.
His sword made hard, slashing arcs. His horse stopped and started, as Markeen’s knees commanded, but it balked and hopped when the wyvern’s tail came sweeping back across the ground. Markeen landed a solid blow, slicing a deep gash in the beast. The blade would have done massive amounts of damage, had the stumbling motion of his horse not carried them both away from it. It was a stroke of luck that the destrier had faltered, because the wyvern’s jaws came striking round, and snapped shut with an audible crack, exactly where Markeen’s head had just been.
King Jarrek, not one to go into a reckless battle rage, spurred his mount in close enough so that he might thrust into the wyvern’s body deeply. The thing was focused on Markeen, and paying little mind to where he was, so Jarrek took advantage. His attack was thwarted by the beast’s broken wing, as it came around, and nearly clipped him from his horse. It was then that Jarrek heard the Highwander wizard’s voice screaming out hoarsely.
“Away! Get away from it!”
Targon, on foot, with a growing sphere of magical blue force in his hands, was half stumbling, half charging from the tree line. No sooner had Jarrek reined his horse away and got clear of the thing, than a bright, sizzling sapphire crackle came streaking from the wizard’s hands like a shooting star. The blast went right into the wyvern’s side and exploded. A head sized chunk of its meat and bone was blown into an acid mist. By then, both King Jarrek and Markeen were spurring themselves towards Targon at a full gallop.
Seeing that his companions were finally out of his way, Captain Proct let another arrow fly, but his effort seemed pointless when Targon sent two more of his wicked blue blasts at the thing. The last magical blow, hit the wyvern in the side of its viper-like head. Upon impact, skull, scale, and a grayish black mass of bloody muck splattered to the ground with a sizzling hiss. A moment later, the long sinuous neck and body fell sputtering and twitching into the mud.
Exhausted, and half dazed, Targon crumpled to the grass where he stood. Captain Proct raced over to see to him. King Jarrek dismounted and ordered Markeen to follow suit. They took a long time inspecting each other’s armor for damage.
The King’s breastplate had been splattered, and when Markeen tried to wipe it clean with a piece of blanket, the red enamel, and a thin layer of gritty steel smeared across it.
Jarrek’s plate mail had been crafted generations ago, and was far lighter than it appeared to be. Apparently, it was still semi-resistant to the wyvern’s acid blood, because Hargh’s armor was eaten completely through. The smear left on Jarrek’s breast plate resembled a streaking fireball, but the integrity of the armor seemed intact.
Luckily for Markeen, whose armor was of the same make and material as Hargh’s, his was free of the corrosive stuff altogether.
Once Jarrek saw the tip of Markeen’s blade, he was glad that he hadn’t stabbed the wyvern with his. Like his armor, the sword called, Wolf’s Fang, had been passed down from King to Prince, for generations. It wouldn’t do to have an arm’s length of its tip eaten away like Markeen’s sword.
“Was it a dragon, Highness?” Markeen asked his King.
Jarrek told him no, but further explanation was cut off by the wizard’s weak voice calling for him. The captain had run down Targon’s horse, and had gotten the spell-weary man back in the saddle. He was leading the slumped over wizard towards the others.
“Hellborn Wyvern,” Targon rasped to them. He wiped some rain from his face and looked at King Jarrek sternly. “It is a creature of brimstone, which until recently was banished behind Pavreal’s Seal.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t have the strength.
“Say a prayer for our countrymen,” Jarrek ordered. “There’s no time to bury them. We have to get into the forest. We’ll be safer there. We’re about ten days out of Highwander, and I, for one, don’t want to wait around and see what else is lingering about out here.”
Maybe it was guilt, or maybe Jarrek just had to say it, but when he was back on his horse, he spoke clearly.
“They would understand and forgive us.”
After a few moments of silent reverence, Captain Proct barked out an order.
“Salvage what supplies you can from the Bridge Guards, Markeen.” He pointed at both the fallen cavalrymen. “I’ll go see where Hargh’s horse fell, and get what’s worth saving from it.”
The rain seemed to be falling harder now, and the line of golden sunshine Jarrek had spotted earlier was nowhere to be found. He and Targon waited at the tree line for the other two to finish pilfering the dead. In any another situation, Jarrek wouldn’t have allowed such sacrilege, but the food, wine skins, and other necessities that might be stashed away in those packs couldn’t be left behind. They had a long ride ahead of them, through one of the most formidable forests the gods had ever created. Anything that might help them get through was welcome at this point, no matter how it had to be acquired.
The soldier who had been unhorsed and killed before the wyvern had announced itself properly, had a sword that Markeen gladly took up. The same man’s horse was found by Captain Proct and used as a pack animal to carry the blankets and other gear that they gathered from their fallen comrades. They had enough rations now to go a few days without being forced to hunt. This was a small comfort, after all the death and destruction they had seen, and survived over the last few days, but a comfort, nonetheless. It meant that they could make haste, and put some distance between themselves, and all the horror. The further into the forest they went, the better. Or so they hoped.
Strangely enough, the rain slacked off and then stopped right after they entered the Evermore. It was late in the day and they were spared, for that evening at least, the miserable humidity that the sun would eventually draw out of the soaked woods. They traveled long into the night before sadness and exhaustion forced them to make camp. When they finally did, King Jarrek looked long and hard at the weak and sickly form of the Witch Queen’s wizard. He couldn’t help but feel squeamish about going to Xwarda, but there was no way he could doubt Targon anymore. Twice now the Highwander wizard had saved his skin in the heat of battle. If that didn’t warrant his complete trust, he didn’t know what did.
As King Jarrek drifted off into a wary sleep, his mind and heart went out to the thousands and thousands of his people that King Glendar had sent to Dakahn to be used as slaves. Just the chance that Queen Willa might aid him in rescuing them was enough for him to feel a spark of hope. He was glad for it, because that tiny spark was all he had.
Grrr, the biggest of the four Great Wolves, the stern and serious pack-leader, carried Hyden Hawk. Oof, the fearless, carried Mikahl. Huffa, the fastest of the four, and the only female in the bunch, carried Vaegon, and Urp, with only his lighter burden of packs to carry, ran circles around them all.
Through the mountains and the foothills, the wolves had been able to keep a strong and steady pace, but as they went deeper into the Evermore Forest, and further out of the cooler, higher altitudes, the heat began to take its toll on them.
The companions wisely began making camp in the later part of the morning and sleeping away the heat of the day. This schedule went far towards helping the wolves cope with the climate, and they appreciated the men for their consideration. The wolves showed their thanks, by sharing the meat they hunted with them, and by keeping their keen eyes and ears open for possible dangers along the way. It had been a long time since any of the companions had eaten so well, and so often.
The wolves worked up a ferocious appetite carrying them, and they made off to hunt at every break, save for their regular midnight water stop. Now, it was late afternoon, and all of the wolves, except for Grrr, who attentively stood guard over the camp, were off to find a meal.
They had been camped in the same place for two days now, patiently waiting for the elf. The spot wasn’t quite a clearing – it was more of an opening in the dense forest, an area with just enough room between the tree trunks for them to stretch out and build a fire. Even during the heat of the day, they were shaded by the emerald canopy of oak, elm and poplar. Only a few rays of sunshine dared to penetrate through the leaves, and those were long gone now, as the unseen sun was getting lower in the sky.
Vaegon was growing increasingly irritable. It had become obvious to Hyden and Mikahl that the elf’s missing eye was causing him a sort of pain that wasn’t physical. It was keeping Vaegon from seeing the subtle auras that he needed to see to find his people, and in turn was causing some deeper agony inside the elf. Vaegon’s temper grew short, and he was sharp with his responses and comments.
Hyden tactfully broached the subject, and pointed out that they had no more time to waste. Vaegon finally admitted defeat. Two full days of travel, it turned out, was more than even he thought they could spare. He tried to explain to them about the powerful concealing magics, and the mobile nature of his people’s secret home.
“Our city, if you could call it that, doesn’t actually exist at the location where you might find and enter it,” Vaegon said, with sadness and longing in his tired voice. “It moves as our people move. The Queen Mother is connected to the forest through the Heart Tree. If we were so inclined, we could be found in the Reyhall Forest in the west, or in the Gnarish Tree Wards, beyond the Giant Mountains. We have forests that we favor. The Evermore is one of these. We were visiting it when I was born, nearly a century ago, so to me, this is home. To get back to my people, to find my home though, has become impossible. To find the entry points in the powerful wards that conceal it, one must have a certain, and uniquely elven vision, and I have lost that.”
His hand fiddled with the patch over his empty socket as he spoke. The sorrow, and agony he was feeling was plain in his voice. It was as if he had been utterly defeated.
It wasn’t easy for the haughty and superior elven archer to admit his newfound weakness, or to accept the fact that he was blind to his homeland, but he swallowed his pride, and let reality set in. After he finished his explanation, he started off into the woods again. They agreed that he would look the rest of this day, and then they would move on. He would look again when they stopped, for the entrances were many and could be found throughout the great forest. He knew he had kept them there too long, but it was only because he hoped that the elves would have noticed him blundering about, and would send a party out to investigate. If any of the elves noticed him, they would surely tell his father, or brother, if not the Queen Mother herself. After all, he was well known amongst his people for a skill he no longer had.
Neither Hyden, nor Mikahl, had realized how old Vaegon actually was. In terms of appearance, and in relation to the human aging process, he wasn’t that much older than they were, but in actual years, Vaegon was old enough to be one of their grandparents.
Mikahl couldn’t conceive of the idea of Vaegon’s age very well, but he understood the elf’s inability to get home. He was haunted by the same feeling. Sure, he could find his way back to Westland, but according to Borg, it wouldn’t be his home that he found when he got there. His mind carried him back to a memory of youth then. A time long before duty and responsibility had swallowed up the promise of the future.
Once, as a boy of seven or eight, when his most important duty in life was the nightly candle snuffing in all the great halls of Lakeside Castle, he and some of the other castle brats had pulled a prank. Had big old Lord Ellrich’s daughter, Zasha, not been involved, he and his conspirators might not have survived King Balton’s wrath.
A feast was being held for some local event, a name day, a wedding, or such. Lord Ellrich from the south, and a few of the northern dukes, were the only attendees of note, other than the king.
The main course was to be a huge glazed pig, complete with an apple in its mouth, and served on a bed of green lettuce on a silver tray.
For hours, it had sat there in the kitchen, sprawled on the rolling cart it would be presented on. Mikahl remembered its pinkish-brown skin, all slick and shiny with honey glaze, as clearly as if he were looking at it now. The troop of castle brats, and the visiting Lady Zasha, who at that time was a long way yet from being a real lady, had hidden with their surprise behind the heavy curtains of the bard’s alcove in the dining hall. They fought the giggles, grunts, and the wiggles that always seem to plague children when mischief is about, while desperately trying to remain undiscovered. They peaked through the curtains, at the unsuspecting feasters, and waited patiently while the servers brought out the courses one at a time. Keeping their surprise quiet and still, was a chore, which caused many a snort, and a few squeals of worry and mirth.