Brady had to knock-out a Seaward watchman as he snuck out of town. He hadn’t relished the idea of assaulting an unsuspecting common soldier, so he rationalized his actions any way he could. If the man had been doing his duty, Brady figured, he wouldn’t have been able to sneak up on him in the first place. The knot on his head would remind him to be more vigilant when he was on guard.
Brady figured that when the sun came up, and his absence was discovered, he would have an insurmountable lead on any pursuers that might try to follow. The ride to Xwarda would be a short one for a single mounted man. With his midnight start, he could be there before anybody even knew to look for him.
He had eaten and rested, but not well on either count. He wouldn’t succumb to his exhaustion though, couldn’t succumb to it, until Queen Willa had been warned of the coming force. His hope was that King Jarrek would already be there. King Jarrek wouldn’t question his seemingly insane claim of an army of walking dead. They had to know that it wasn’t just Pael and Westland’s army coming. It was something far worse.
Xwarda was the undead army’s destination, Brady was certain. Xwarda was the oldest city in all of the known Kingdoms. It had been the kingdom seat back when the kingdoms had all been one. He remembered from his lessons, something about a great magical force that embraced the place, but couldn’t remember the details. All he knew for certain was that if the Westland wizard took control of that ancient power, then the kingdoms were all probably doomed.
Brady was so consumed with these dire thoughts, that he didn’t see the rope leap taught across his path. It caught him across the breast plate, and stopped his momentum cold, as his horse ran right out from under him. All he saw, before blackness consumed him, were the faces of other soldiers looking curiously down on him. He couldn’t tell where they were from. It was still too dark, and his head was swimming. He tried to raise his body up, but couldn’t. It didn’t matter who they were. Now no one would be able to warn Xwarda. He fought to pull air into his emptied lungs, but before he found out if he succeeded in drawing breath, he slipped into unconsciousness.
The next morning, Pael collected his Blood Caps alone, and with some haste. As soon as he was satisfied with the weight of his basket, he went back to his little red castle with a crackling flourish and began preparing his concoction. He took special care to ward himself from the effects of the potent poisons he was combining with a deadly virus he had cultivated a few days earlier. Not only would his potion be lethal to all who ingested it, but its deadly effect would spread like wildfire among the rest of them. After a few hours, the virus would die out, but it would be too late by then: everyone in the Valleyan/Seaward encampment would already be dead.
He methodically boiled, mixed, strained, and stirred, stopping every now and again, to read, and reread, the pages of the open book lying on the table. When he was finished with his concoction, he stoppered the vial of murky black liquid, shed his goat hide gloves and shimmered away.
It was dark in the city of Plat, when Pael appeared behind a row of empty buildings, out of sight. Hundreds of campfires burned along the western portion of the city, and beyond its limits. Both armies were still here, and he was pleased. The more the merrier, he told himself, as he ran his hand down his front, turning his fancy black robes into coarse homespun rags.
He pulled the hood up over his gleaming blue and green veined head. The top of his scalp had blistered when he’d taken the time to heal the Choska demon. The healing had lasted well into the afternoon, and Pael hadn’t thought to protect his head from the sun. Now, the rough material irritated the sunburn, and Pael growled at the pain. He had to force himself to tolerate the sensation, so that he might savor the moment at hand.
He took his time strolling around the occupied city, and the many encampments at its fringes. He studied the siege engines, the catapults, and the boarding towers the Seawardsmen had pieced together and mounted to the tops of big horse-drawn carts. He estimated the numbers of horses and men as best as he could in the insufficient light of a hundred small fires.
As he walked around, and gathered in all that would soon be under his control, he began to formulate his plans to the next level.
He found the command post in a deserted building, and studied the displayed maps of Xwarda there. The city hadn’t changed in years, and Pael had to smile at the fact that a few of the little known ways into the walls, were on his own maps, but not on these.
He then went, and found the building that was being used to heat the huge cauldrons of gruel that would be bucketed out to the different divisions of soldiers at sunrise. A handful of men, full of yawns and curses, went about stirring meal mix into the boiling water, cutting fruit, and readying eggs to be fried for the officers. The smell of baking bread filled the place, and oddly reminded Pael of a time when Shaella was but a baby. The memory was fleeting.
The men didn’t seemed to notice him standing there watching them. He was far from invisible; he had only wanted himself to be unobtrusive to the eye of those that might pay attention to him. He trembled with glee as he dripped a few drops of his brew into each of the cauldrons. He had a strange moment of déjà vu, remembering how he had poisoned Glendar’s father’s goblet, but it was overridden by his deviant mirth.
When the vial was empty, he tossed it aside, and began casting the spell that would reanimate those who died from his poison or the plague that it hosted. These undead soldiers would rise from the earth, whole and unwounded. No gaping gashes or broken armor for these undead troops, and what was more, they were already in position to take Xwarda for him.
He sank into his work with fervor, and soon the casting was under way. He had already given Lord Brach his new orders. Brach would arrive, and assume command of this new set of battalions very soon. Pael had planned it so that he could concentrate his full focus, and sink all his power into the casting of the powerful dark spell that would raise these men after they died. He held back only enough power to transport himself to his warded bedchamber in the castle at Dreen.
As he finished his casting, he shook his head in disbelief. The power of the demon Shokin that had come into him by luck, or maybe fate, had given him the tools to achieve his goals far sooner than he had ever expected to. He had grossly underestimated the number of troops he would find here in Plat. It was all he could do to fight away the giddy manic shivers that tried to course through him as he thought about the Wardstone. Soon, he would be able to wield endless amounts of raw natural power. With a mountain of Wardstone to fuel his desires, the giants, the dragons, and even the rest of demon kind, would be forced to kneel before him. It was with much pleasure that he finished his spell, and transported himself wearily back to Dreen, to recuperate from his exertion. By the time he woke from his slumber, his undead armies would be enjoined, and he would use them to take Xwarda for his own.
The next day, the three undead commanders, Lord Brach, General Vogel, and General Chatta, all prepared their undead troops to march on Xwarda.
They split into three groups, each over ten thousand undead men strong. Each group was to make for one of the four main gates that opened into Xwarda’s massive outer wall. The last gate, the one with the road that led eastward through the foothills of the Wander Mountains to the city called Jenkanta, was to be left unguarded. Pael wanted the Witch Queen, and her refugees, to have a way to flee the city when they saw the army of undead coming. Even a heartless being like Pael, had some reservations about destroying the wonder of Xwarda’s palace. He could hunt down those who ran later, at his leisure. If he could avoid destroying the city, and the palace within it, Pael wanted to do so. Besides, the idea of watching the pitiful folk flee in terror entertained his ego to no end.
Sooner or later, Queen Willa would see the futility of fighting his army. His was no ordinary siege force. They had no need to worry about raining arrows, or pots of boiling pitch pouring down upon them. They didn’t need food, nor did the weather concern them. They couldn’t be deterred by fear or pain, and none of them were afraid to die, because they were all already dead.
Save for the raspy, and laborious, rise and fall of his chest, Mikahl lay perfectly still. The healers had done everything they could. It may or may not have been enough. His chain mail shirt, and his ruined travel clothes, had been stripped away. In their place, plain white robes covered his body. His skin had been cleaned, and his long, blondish brown hair brushed to shining.
He lay atop a raw block of Wardstone, in a plain room at the back of the castle, in a wing designated to the healing arts, and the recovery of those who might need them. The room was formed of the same white marble blocks as the rest of the structure, and was illuminated by a soft, magical glow that seemed to radiate equally from every direction, so that no shadows were cast whatsoever. Darkness had little chance of taking hold in this room. There were no chairs, no windows, no tables; just the featureless room, and Mikahl lying up on the Wardstone block, like a forgotten altar sacrifice.
To Hyden Hawk, Mikahl looked like some saint of old out of Berda’s stories, laying there after a battle. To Vaegon he looked as good as dead. To most any other, it looked like the room held a sarcophagus, with the likeness of the occupant carved, and painted on its top for visitors and mourners to see.
“We know what he was about. Shall we continue it?” Vaegon asked Hyden.
He raised Mikahl’s sheathed sword in his hand to indicate what “It” was. He had been tempted to lay it on Mikahl’s chest, and clasp his hands to the hilt, but that seemed like such a final gesture, that he couldn’t bring himself to do it just yet.
“Aye,” Hyden answered, his voice thick with emotion. “I think I’ll go to the temple of the White Goddess, and seek counsel. I’ll ask her the location of the cooling stone King Aldar spoke of. Hopefully, she’ll tell me what needs to be done now.”
“After seeing that grand depiction of Ironspike’s forging, I think that Queen Willa, or one of her people, might know of the cooling stone’s location. I’ll ask Dugak, the dwarf, while you visit Whitten Loch. Maybe he will know something about it, or who to ask.”
“Aye,” Hyden wiped away a stray tear. “I’ll send the wolves home first. King Aldar will –”
He didn’t finish. Looking at Mikahl, and thinking of Grrr’s brave sacrifice, overtook him. He turned and strode out of the room, nearly bowling over a pair of serious looking, robed and bearded men in the hallway. Seeing which room he had come from, they kindly waved his apology off, and made way for him. The pair of uniformed Blacksword soldiers posted at the end of the hallway did the same.
It took Hyden a while to find his way out of the castle. He had started to feel claustrophobic, and more than once had to wipe away the salty tears that were clouding his vision and adding to his growing sense of panic. Once outside the clean air, and openness of the park around the lake was so refreshing, that each breath he took forced out some of his grief, and replaced it with crisp lungfuls of, not quite hope, but relief at least.
He sought out Talon, and through his hawkling familiar’s keen vision, located the wolves. He made his way along a stone path that led to them and found them with the ease of one who was watching his way from above. When he came upon them, all three of them eased close, and greeted him with much licking and tail wagging. They picked up his mood easily, and as he settled amongst them in the grass, they spoke of Grrr, Mikahl, and the Lady Queen. They conveyed their need to return to King Aldar, so that he might know that his proud, and ferocious pack-leader, had given his life trying to save Mikahl.
As he, Talon, and six soldiers from the inner gates escorted the great wolves through the city, Hyden noticed how much more crowded it had become. He and Vaegon had passed through only a day and a half ago, and already, the number of refugees packed into the streets had doubled. He remembered the other roads leading into Xwarda, the spokes of the wheel he had seen from above. He wondered how many more might be wedged in, before the Valleyan and Seaward armies attacked.
Last night, at dinner, Queen Willa’s denial of having any knowledge of her men starting the bloodletting at Summer’s Day had been believable enough. With demons loose upon the land, and a Dragon Queen in control of Westland, the idea that servants of some dark force had started this mess, while posing as Highwander soldiers, made more sense, especially now that Highwander was under attack.
The soldiers escorting Hyden Hawk and the wolves motioned for them to squeeze to the side of the lane. Another procession of soldiers was passing on its way toward the castle. Among them, Hyden saw two men wearing red armor, one with a ruby-eyed wolf skull mounted upon his helmet. Hyden had heard tales of the red armored guardsmen of Wildermont at Summer’s Day. It was Wildermont soldiers who policed the Festival every year, and every one of them revered the Redwolf Guard. These men looked haggard and road weary. Another of the group, a dark haired man, with a beard, and robes, that had once been crisp and white, but were now filthy, with forest grime, looked at Hyden curiously as they passed. The Great Wolves had drawn his attention, Hyden hoped, but the man’s eyes stayed glued to Hyden, and the hawkling that was riding tall on his shoulder.
Once the two processions had passed each other, the way to the outer gate became easier to manage. The other group had caused all the debris and belongings to be cleared out of the roadway. When they passed through the tunnel-like gateway of the outer wall, Hyden imagined that it was full of soldiers, all ready to pour out and defend the city when the time came.
Once outside the gates, they found a semi-private niche, and Hyden and the Great Wolves crowded together. He tried not to cry, but it was hopeless. He’d grown to love them. Urp’s frisky, and never ending playfulness, Oof’s cocky and proud attitude, and Huffa’s motherly authority, had found a place deep in his heart of hearts. They were as much his friends now as Vaegon and Mikahl were.