The Powterosian War (Book 5) (18 page)

“Carry the wizard to the wizard’s tower and be careful with him,” Grekenbach said to the dazed soldiers. The men formed up and four of them carried the wizard down the stairs.

“It failed,” the general said as the orcs moved closer to the city walls behind the whingtangs. “Nothing is happening. The little man wasn’t able to achieve whatever it was he was trying to accomplish.” The gruff old general cleared his throat and turned to his aide. “Prepare the oil bags. We’ll try to drive them off once more with fire.”

“Hold,” Grekenbach said thrusting his arm back, halting the general, yet his eyes remained fixed on the tunnel before the gate.

The tower shook. There was a great rumbling in the earth below. The whingtang’s tail and barbed ball tip thrashed wildly about, retreating from the burrow’s entrance. The great beast scrambled backward out of the warren. In its haste, it smashed its sides against the tunnel walls so violently it shook the tower and ramparts. Three of the four beasts began backing out of the tunnels, smashing themselves in every direction. They slung orcs everywhere and threw soil and rock explosively with their claws. One ripped open its own belly, clawing at what then glowed within. The beast tore out its stomach, hurling a burning ball into the night. It looked at its black charred entrails, then rolled over on its side and died with its tongue hanging out and its cold, yellow eyes staring at the north wall.

The other two thrashing whingtangs were wildly dashing about out of control, destroying anything around them. They died, too, rushing back into the darkness to the security they had left before being led to the underpasses. The three great carcasses lay barely within sight of the king in the tower.

A great cheer went up from the soldiers on the walls, seeing the crazed beasts destroying siege towers and enemy camps along the slopes above the city. The men grabbed each other, hugging, waving their arms through the air, and yelling out their relief in cheers unending.

“We’re saved!” the general shouted. He grabbed the king’s hand and shook it violently before he remembered himself and bowed, apologizing.

Grekenbach didn’t cheer with the others; his eyes were fixed on the fourth tunnel. The great burrowing beast didn’t emerge as the three other monsters had
.
Where is it? He asked himself. It’s in that last tunnel. One of the four balls was in there. Why isn’t the beast burning up inside? The king moved slowly down the stairs and down the wall closer to the tunnel, watching it with every step. As he passed, the soldiers moved back and silence spread down the wall. What’s happening, why hasn’t the beast come out? There’s not even rumbling in the earth. Where is it? The silence tore at him. He ran back to the gate, down the stairs, and across the city to the palace and the wizard in his tower.

* * *

Dreaddrac’s king fumed in his audience hall as the courtiers, sinister supplicants, trembled in the dark recesses of the side aisles and behind columns. Smegdor stood off to the side as far from the Dark Lord as was possible and still within hearing if summoned. The chatra, a tall, cold, stilted thing stood at the base of the dais apparently not caring if he lived or died. The king jumped up from his throne and called for the Prertstenian ambassador who cowered prostrate on the floor before crawling up to the dais.

“So your master fled the field and abandoned Heggolstockin to the army at Feldrik, did he?” the king asked. He shook the message from one of his spies at the ambassador.

“I’ve… I’ve no idea, Magnificence. Prince Pindradese has told me nothing since his message about invading Heggolstockin and the siege at Feldrik.” The man who’d dared to raise his face enough to say that, lowered it again.

The Dark Lord stepped down the three steps of the dais and stood before the ambassador whose trembling body was shaking his robes on the stone floor. The king’s yellow eyes scanned across the audience hall, inspecting the faces visible to him in the darkness. There was a deathly silence. Then the Evil One stomped on the ambassador’s head, splattering his brains. The sound of the skull crunching, shattered the silence of the great cavern. The sorcerer looked down as the dying body quivered, then lay still and lifeless. With a snarl, the king wiped the gore from his boots on the dead man’s robes and resumed his place on the throne. He motioned the guards to remove the corpse. The blood and brains remained, glistening at first but became dull as the blood dried in the cold room.

“Smegdor!” The king called out.

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Smegdor said, stooped forward rushing to the king’s side.

“Write Prince Pindradese and inform him his ambassador has suffered the most gruesome and unexpected death. He must send another, better informed one. Also, inform our vassal prince that his withdrawal from the siege of Feldrik Fortress was most regrettable. His return there at once is, of course, required. His palace is of no consequence. He’ll have neither palace nor principality unless his army is again at Feldrik, attacking it before the new moon.”

“Yes, Majesty,” Smegdor said, jotting down the last of the king’s message.

“Send the message with a goblin astride Ozrin. The sight of the silver dragon should impress upon Pindradese the necessity of speedy compliance.” The king rose and addressed those present in the hall. “Let it be known my benevolence in allowing Pindradese to live is due to having just received word that Heggolstockin has fallen. The duke and duchess are dead. Our unstoppable army is moving forward to reinforce General Vylvex at Graushdemheimer.”

There was a muffled mumbling across the hall. His successes pleased the king and his face displayed a confident, victorious grin. One or two courtiers stepped from the shadows.

“Hador is breached as well. General Bor has cleared the tunnel beneath the mountains and our legions are marching once again onto the Hadorian Plain. They, too, are moving south to support and reinforce General Vylvex at Graushdemheimer. The kingdom will fall soon and be mine.”

A general clapping of hands filled the hall with applause. More courtiers moved into the cavernous main aisle. Strange creatures, in many cases unseen in the south, moved into the feeble light.

Those present want to be seen and remembered by their lord as supportive of our successes, the Dark Lord thought.

“Be Sengenwha mourned too?” a voice in the hall asked.

Smegdor turned and fled the audience. The king’s mood instantly soured. His eyes searched for the questioner. A small squat creature with enormous ears and ridiculous in its oversized court robes trembled four rows back. As the king looked across the hall, his acute hearing and sight noted the fluttering robe’s movement. The creature ducked behind a large troll, but the king’s eye fell on the spot. Those courtiers around where the king stared shuffled back into the shadows. The troll was last to shift, exposing the large-eared being crouched on the floor.

“I’m sor…” the creature started to say but was cut off as a wizard-fire bolt sizzled through the air and vaporized the annoyance into a wisp of dark oily smoke above an outline of ash.

“Anymore questions?” the king asked. The hall was again silent. The courtiers fled to the far recesses careful not to disturb the floor’s grit and draw attention. The Dark Lord turned and left the hall.

*

Smegdor hurried to his desk and formally wrote out the king’s message on the parchment of unknown skin the king liked to use for correspondence. He rolled it up and took it to his master. The Dark Lord read it, nodded his approval, and when Smegdor had melted sealing wax on the closure, the king slammed his seal ring into the wax.

“Will that be all, Majesty?” Smegdor asked. The brooding king said nothing but dismissed Smegdor with the flick of his hand. “I shall send a goblin at once on Ozrin as you commanded.”

Smegdor rushed to the barracks on a lower level, finding the goblins alone in their lair, always disdainful of the king’s lesser minions. Smegdor selected a particularly intimidating goblin with a nasty scar that ran down the right side of his face from above his eye to his neck. The uncovered eye itself was white. The goblin must like the terrible affect it has, he thought. Smegdor told the goblin of the king’s order and handed him the sealed scroll. The two went to the dragon stables high on the mountain where Dreg was sweeping the straw and litter off the slope where a nasty dark trail spilled down over the snow. A snort at the back of the cave flashed light out of the entrance. A short burst of black smoke trickled out.

“Go see what that dragon is stressing about,” came a shrill voice from the dark interior.

Dreg looked up at the approaching man and goblin. He ignored the shrill voice and leaned on his broomstick. “What can I do for you?”

“How are you, Dreg?” Smegdor asked. “I’ve not seen you for a while I know. The king has kept me very busy. Did you get the food I sent last week?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Get on with it,” the goblin interjected.

“Yes, well, the goblin here is to take Ozrin to Prertsten it seems. The king commands it. Can you get Ozrin to come out?”

“Did you bring the order?” Dreg asked. “You know the dragons only respond to direct orders from the king.”

Smegdor smiled and handed Dreg a hand written order from the king directing Ozrin to take the goblin to Prertsten and return with him intact. Dreg looked at the order though he couldn’t read it and went back into the stable. Smegdor and the goblin waited at the entrance, knowing the danger of entering the dragon stables under the best of circumstances.

“What’s the matter with you, Dreg,” Earwig’s shrill voice screeched again.

“Smegdor’s here for Ozrin,” Smegdor heard in reply.

Suddenly, the old hag rushed out from the cave with straw still tangled in her matted hair. “Smegdor,” Earwig rushed to embrace the king’s confidant. “Where have you been? Has the king sent for me?” The black gaping holes between the few remaining teeth showed when she attempted her imitation smile. Smegdor chilled at the sight of the witch.

“No madam, the king has not sent for you as yet.”

The smile disappeared and Earwig’s face pinched in from every angle leaving only the puffy jowls protruding awkwardly. “He should have sent for me by now. He fails to see all I have to offer.”

“Perhaps soon, madam.”

Earwig perked up at the thought. She plastered the nauseating smile on her multicolored, leathery face. “Soon, yes, soon he will call upon me. You will remind him I’m at his disposal, won’t you? And be sure to refer to me as majesty, Smegdor. You know I was queen once and will be again.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Smegdor said with no conviction. He was looking past the hag at Dreg, approaching with the dragon following. Earwig jerked around and saw the smoke. She shrieked, slapped her black-clawed hands over her ears and rushed back by Dreg into the darkness before the dragon came out.

“Ozrin comes,” Dreg said. His face was downcast, but he did glance up at Smegdor with a momentary smile, then looked back behind him and down at the ground.

The rocky ledge trembled as great Ozrin’s massive clawed feet slammed down in his approach. Flames shot out of the cave entrance. The dragon ventured forth, looking all around before he stepped out. He looked at the goblin as Smegdor stepped back. The goblin trembled but held his stance. Ozrin leaned down and sniffed the goblin, looked him up and down, and finally came out of the cave lowering his head. The goblin glanced at Smegdor, then walked up to Ozrin and stepped on his first digit. The dragon lifted the goblin onto the back of his neck. When the rider settled, Ozrin flapped his wings, stirring a whirl of stony dust. He leapt off the side of the mountain and flew into the wind, circling the mountain three times gaining altitude, then flew off to the southwest.

“Take care, Mr. Smegdor,” Dreg said.

Smegdor watched the dragon keeper for a moment. Dreg was again sweeping the rubbish from the ledge.

“Take care yourself, Dreg. Don’t let the witch worry you.” Then Smegdor went back deep inside the mountain, available at an instant for the king’s command.

* * *

Major Count Bodrin reached Hoya and rushed at once to find King Saxthor at the Hoyahof. Top ranking army and navy officers of the royal court were milling around the formal reception hall as others rushed in and out of the private chamber with messages and orders for the kingdom’s administrators. Bodrin found the chamberlain at the door to the latter.

“I must see the king right away,” Bodrin said.

At once the door opened and the bowing chamberlain swept his arm in an arc to admit Bodrin to the king’s presence.

King Saxthor jumped up from the desk where to generals stood awaiting orders. He rushed to embrace his friend, hugged Bodrin and, holding him at arm’s length, stood back examining him. He saw Bodrin wince.

“What’s happened? You’re hurt?” Saxthor said, a sudden look of alarm on his face.

“My shoulder, Majesty,” Bodrin said. “It’s only a scratch.”

“Chamberlain, summon the court physician,” Saxthor said. “Bodrin, come sit beside me and tell me what has happened. There are terrible reports coming in from everywhere.” Saxthor gently touched his friends arm and moved his fingers around to the shoulder to reassure himself his best friend wasn’t seriously harmed.”

“Saxthor, things are worse than we suspected in the south.”

“How so?” Saxthor said. He stopped probing the shoulder and looked Bodrin straight in the eye.