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.
Chapter 50
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.”