The Wizard and the Warlord (The Wardstone Trilogy Book Three) (27 page)

Mikahl gave her a sparkling smile. He knew how lucky he was to have her, even if she sometimes drove him crazy.

“Oh look, Mik,” she said, following Allysan’s pointing finger. “It’s King Jarrek. He has called up a formal greeting party to escort us to his castle.”

Mikahl grinned. He hadn’t seen Jarrek in a few months and was anxious to be in the company of his old friend. “My lady,” Mikahl said through his grin, “King Jarrek’s castle is only a pile of rocks. They will probably escort us to an outlying stronghold within the city’s wall.”

“We can stay at our pavilion, for all I’m concerned,” Rosa said with a blush. “Lately, it’s become one of my more favorite places to be.”

Allysan giggled and whispered something, causing Rosa to giggle as well. Mikahl found his cheeks blooming with heat too. He was never more thankful than when the carriage came to a stop and one of the commanders knocked politely on the door.

“High King Mikahl, King Jarrek has invited Your Highness to join him,” the man said after the door had been opened. “If it pleases, he would like to give you a personal tour of the progress. Your horse has been readied. I’m to apologize to my lady, for the roads in most areas are not suitable for the carriage.”

Mikahl looked at his wife askance.

“Go on, Mikahl.” She smiled. “I’ll see you soon enough.”

“Thank you, Rosa,” he said as he hurried out to find Windfoot.

***

A few hours later, he and King Jarrek rode side by side through the heart of Castlemont. The score of men escorting them were spread out so that the two could speak privately.

“Under Diamondeen, the dwarves have done wonders,” Jarrek was saying. “They are using blocks and materials from the destroyed buildings to construct the newer ones. It saves us from having to haul so much debris out of the city.”

“Who will be their next king?” Mikahl asked. The former king of the dwarves had died fighting to free Jarrek’s people from Ra’Gren’s slavery. The dwarves, newly returned to the realm, had gravitated toward Castlemont and Oktin, where their service as stone workers was needed most. King Mikahl hadn’t received much news about them in Dreen, for King Jarrek was as busy as a man could be.

“It’s hard to say,” Jarrek answered. “It’s something that will be done below in one of the underground cities. I’m sure they will choose well, though.”

“How has our Lord Bzorch been faring?”

King Jarrek barked out a laugh. “You should see the new bridge. Well, you will see it when you cross it in the morning. He is a fair enough bridge master and I don’t think any other breed giant in the pack could keep the rest under control as well as he does.” Jarrek cringed. “I would sure hate to be Ra’Gren.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Oh yes.” King Jarrek made an elaborate circular gesture with his arm. “When he and the remaining overlords aren’t pulling Bzorch around in his cart, the Lord of Locar has them chained to a giant gear wheel that turns the dwarves’ millstones.”

“Do you think we are wrong torturing Ra’Gren that way?” Mikahl asked. “It seems sometimes that we are no better than him by doing so.”

“No, sir.” Jarrek’s voice was stern. “Ra’Gren and his overlords enslaved tens of thousands, and killed thousands of innocents, just to entertain themselves.” The Red Wolf’s tone grew heated as he spoke. “If they were to live a thousand years smoldering on a bed of hot coals, they wouldn’t have suffered enough.”

It was King Jarrek’s turn to enquire then, and the two men spoke for a long time about Queen Willa, Queen Rosa, and plans for the realm. Mikahl told him of Hyden’s quest and the progress at Oktin. That night King Jarrek held a feast in their honor and once again swore his fealty to High King Mikahl and the might of Ironspike.

Mikahl had told him of his concerns about the marshes and the threats the Zard might pose. After the main course was devoured, the Red Wolf announced that men would be sent immediately into Dakahn to help organize a marsh patrol similar to Westland’s.

Rumors of a riverboat full of Wildermont steel being pirated on its way down to O’Dakahn took on a new light. Mikahl’s proposed marsh patrol would make it all but impossible for pirates to thrive along either channel of the Leif Greyn River. The nobles and the other folk in attendance at the feast were excited about the news. Such protection from thievery would benefit every merchant, smith, and bargeman in the realm. Soon that talk died away. A lute-playing bard, accompanied by a harpist, filled the hall with bright, uplifting song. Most of the gatherers moved to the courtyard where the musicians were joined by a large, hairless woman’s angelic voice. Even though it was cold enough to see one’s breath, a blanket of hope and promise warmed the hearts of all.

The next afternoon, after sleeping as late as possible, Mikahl received word from King Jarrek that he would be busy in the city and regretted not being able to see him off. The Red Wolf did promise to visit him in Westland soon. It was common knowledge that King Jarrek spent his days out in the rubble and dust hauling debris or stacking stone blocks with the other laborers. He was one with his people, and since Pael had torn the heart out of his kingdom, he sweated, strained, and even bled the love back into his land. Mikahl admired his resolve. Like Hyden and Phen, he was one of the realm’s greatest heroes. King Mikahl felt lucky to know him.

Locar was only an hour’s ride from Castlemont on horseback, but with the huge escort of soldiers and the seven-wagon train, it took most of the morning to get there. Bzorch, the Lord of Locar, waited on the Westland side of the newly repaired span. He was huge and imposing sitting in his wagon cart behind a team of well-muscled, but broken-looking, men.

Mikahl had grown frustrated and exited the royal carriage to inspect the bridge from his horse. Only one lane was complete, but another would be done by winter. The dwarves and breed giants were using the old columns that jutted up out of the Leif Greyn River to build them all, but they were using newly mined granite out of the Wilder Mountains to add onto them. Mikahl estimated that it would be spring, and spring again, before the entire five-lane bridge was restored to its former magnificence.

As Mikahl approached Bzorch, the breed giant climbed out of his cart and took a knee. Seeing that he was still nearly at eye level with Mikahl, even though he was still mounted, Bzorch lowered his head even more. Mikahl couldn’t help but note the amount of respect the alpha breed was showing him. Their relationship was held civil by the thinnest of strands. Bzorch had led breed giants against Westlanders and against Mikahl’s father, King Balton, at Coldfrost. Mikahl had been there, but only as a squire. The Dragon Queen had given him his title, but Bzorch betrayed her in order to do what was best for his people. The breed giant and his huge crossbow-like dragon guns had helped win the day at the Battle of O’Dakahn.

“Lord Bzorch,” Mikahl said, seeing that King Ra’Gren and his once fat overlords looked healthy in the chains that held them to Bzorch’s cart. Mikahl smiled at something he remembered Jarrek saying earlier.

“Well met, Lord of Locar,” Mikahl said as Bzorch stood up.

Windfoot whinnied and pranced nervously back. Bzorch, easily ten feet tall and as wide as a set of double doors, grinned down at his king. He wore no shirt, only horsehide britches and shin-high boots. Studded leather gauntlets strained around his meaty forearms, and one of his serving-tray sized pectoral muscles jumped as he spread an arm out in invitation.

“Welcome home, High King Mikahl,” he boomed. “We have been awaiting your return most anxiously.”

Ra’Gren, once the wealthiest king in the realm, snorted a laugh of disgust from his place at the front of the wagon harness.

Even to Mikahl, Bzorch’s words sounded strange. Not so many years ago the breed giants had feasted on the flesh of men and women under his father’s protection. Mikahl realized, though, that Bzorch had probably practiced the words all morning. He looked away and his eyes met Ra’Gren’s. Before he could stop himself, he hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat it into the dirt.

“You’ve done well with the bridge, Lord Bzorch.” He held Ra’Grens gaze as he spoke. “You should fatten up your wagon team and make them into a stew.”

Ra’Gren paled and looked away. Bzorch laughed low and loud. “I would have eaten the bastards long ago, King Mikahl, but there’s no one left in the realm despicable enough to replace them.”

Mikahl nodded agreement, but in the back of his mind he was thinking about Lord Vidian, the tyrant from Weir. He was quite sure that Queen Willa would amend the man’s punishment and send him to Locar.

“I’ve got orders for some of your men,” Mikahl said as he reined Windfoot out of the way of the royal procession that was just now filing its way across the bridge. “I would like a dozen of your dragon gunners, with ropemen and whatever else they need to operate. I would have them in Xwarda before full winter sets in. Queen Willa and General Escott will assign them from there. Pick a few of your folk, the more civil of them, to establish an embassy there. Once that’s done, a rotation can be set so that no one has to stay for too long.”

Bzorch’s smile looked more like a snarl but his eyes showed that he was pleased his people were needed in such a way. “I can have them moving in two days’ time.”

“Good.” Mikahl nodded. The awkward tension between them was beginning to ease. “Also, the Zard and a Choska may be stirring up trouble at the Dragon’s Tooth Spire.” Mikahl noticed the breed giant’s grin growing broader on his ape-like face. “I’ll be sending a few hundred men on barges to investigate. I would like it if you could send a handful of your less civil kin, and a few dragon guns with them, as well.”

“If it pleases you, King Mikahl,” Bzorch said joyfully. “I would lead them myself. I hate the Zard.”

“I will leave that decision up to you, Lord Bzorch,” Mikahl smiled. “The soldiers and barges will be in Settsted in a fortnight. I want the area around the Dragon Spire thoroughly investigated and anything you perceive as a threat eliminated.”

Mikahl found that he felt sorry for anything Bzorch got his hands on. A seriously sharp-looking fang, as long as Mikahl’s little finger, was jutting menacingly over the breed giant’s upper lip as he strode away.

When Mikahl rejoined his wife in the royal carriage he was feeling better than he had since King Aldar told him he was King Balton’s son. For the first time in his reign, he felt that all was at peace. Nothing so dire or dangerous that it couldn’t be contained was threatening them, and hope was as plentiful as the leaves falling from the autumn trees. Even the people of Wildermont were bustling with purpose. The horrors of the past few years were all but forgotten as the people of his kingdom looked toward the future.

He smiled at his beautiful wife. Queen Rosa smiled back at him. He found the idea of spending the entire winter in Westland trying to make an heir as appealing as anything he could imagine.

The white ram heard Hyden Hawk’s words from the blackbird, who had heard the words from one of the otters in the valley. Since the ram could traverse the mountain peaks with relative ease, and speed across the hills at will, the curved-horned beast took it upon himself to carry the words all the way to the Southern Guardian. For two days, the ram leapt across the rocky precipices and eased around the sheer cliffs on its way toward Borg. The animals knew the circuitous route the giant used to cover the part of the mountains he guarded for his king.

The smaller creatures had to know where Borg traveled. Sometimes he shared the company of King Aldar’s great wolves. They were servants of the Giant Kingdom, but they were predators as well. Knowing this, the white ram was hesitant to linger along Borg’s trail. He didn’t want to become dinner for one of the huge beasts. He found a snow owl sitting in an ice-laden fir tree and headed to tell her Hyden Hawk’s words. He hoped she would hang around until Borg passed. The scent of great wolves was heavy in the air and his instinct wouldn’t allow him to linger.

“Wise owl,” the white ram said in a way that only animals could understand.

“What is it, curved-horn?” she asked, twisting her gray-flecked head at an odd angle to look down at him. “You’re far away from the rocky heights you call home.” The owl’s coin-sized amber eyes snapped open and shut.

“I have words for the giant man, Borg.”

“Who… who… who spoke these words?” the owl asked.

“Hyden Hawk spoke them.”

The owl nodded. “They must be important words.”

“They are,” the ram replied, prancing nervously in place. The scent of wolf was strong, and the ram couldn’t help the way it made him feel. “Will you hear these words and speak them to the giant when he passes?”

“Who… who?” The owl fluttered down to a lower branch on the fir tree, sending a shower of collected snow cascading down onto the icy ground.

“The giant,” the ram answered, wondering if the owl had really been asking.

“I know who… who?” the owl said. “Tell me the words and I’ll tell the giant.”

“Hyden Hawk’s herd is moving north to the Cairn of Loudin. He wishes Borg to join them, and aid them.”

“Who?” the owl said.

“Who what?” the ram said in frustration. “Hyden’s herd is moving north toward the Cairn of Loudin. He wishes Borg to join them and aid them.”

“I heard you the first time,” the owl said defensively.

“Then why did you ask, ‘who?’” the ram growled just before charging the trunk of the tree and butting it with his horns. An explosion of snow and ice came piling down on top of him.

The owl fluttered back up to her original perch and chuckled. The ram shivered the snow off of himself and stepped back so he could see the owl again.

“I am an owl,” the bird said informatively. “I say ‘who’ because it is my nature, just like it is yours to butt heads or even trees when you get frustrated.”

“Will you give Borg the message?” the ram finally asked.

“Who?” the owl said.

The ram started to grow angry again, but stopped himself. Instead, he snorted and bounded off into the trees.

The owl laughed at the hard-headed animal again before taking to the air. Owls were wise, and this one knew exactly what part of the trail Borg was traveling. The owl also knew instinctually that any message from nature’s human counterpart was of the utmost importance. She wasted no time. Before the sun went down, the Southern Guardian was in the owl’s sight.