Grattan led him down one of the long ramps that lined the inside face of the outer wall. Jarrek noticed a large wooden section of it that was rigged to collapse, if certain pins were knocked out. A few well placed hammer blows would leave any attackers who had gained the top of the wall with no way to use the inclines. There were switchback stairways, and narrow passages going all over the place inside the wall, though. They led to several levels of arrow slits and murder holes that opened up on the outside.
Bratton led them to a stairway, which went down several flights, before it opened onto a wide and busy tunnel. Crates of spears and arrows, along with barrels and boxes, lined the walls, and there were rooms full of other stored wartime goods, opening up off the main artery.
Inside one room, Jarrek saw men suiting up in their armor, like he was about to do. The long, slow process of strapping plate and chained steel to one’s body was ritualistic by nature, and none of the men in the rooms were trying to hurry. Further along, a knot of already armored Blacksword soldiers joked over a cup of ale by a barrel-keg. One of them recognized King Jarrek, and elbowed his fellows into a slight bow of respect.
Xwarda is ready for war, thought Jarrek, but are they ready for Pael?
All in all, the city would be well defended, if they were facing any normal foe. Come to think of it, no normal foe really stood a chance of getting past the outer wall, and with all of the city’s tunnels, and secret passages, a siege would be pointless.
The enemy that was outside the gates was anything but normal though. And the demon-wizard was worse than all those undead men put together. Jarrek hoped they would find a way to best Pael and his death brigade, but honestly, he reserved little hope of any of them making it through this night alive.
It was well past sunset, when Vaegon and Dugak came up through a trapdoor in the floor of a wine cellar, which was located in the lower part of the palace. The dwarf quickly emptied the water from the skin he had carried, and refilled it from a tapped keg of stout. He offered Vaegon a sip, but the elf declined, with a grin. He waited patiently, while Dugak gathered his wind and recovered himself, then asked him to lead the way to where Mikahl was housed.
Vaegon had a general idea of where the healers’ wing was located, but the castle was huge, and crowded with soldiers and refugees alike, and he didn’t want chance getting lost. Dugak drained off his skin in three big gulps, filled it again, and then started off into the castle.
The rooms and corridors were as crowded as the streets had been that first day when Vaegon and Hyden had come through with the ranger, Drick. These people weren’t filthy and poor though. These were the families wealthy enough to buy their way into the castle – the Dukes and Lords, the landowners, and the Mayor’s other favorites, so Dugak told Vaegon.
The rumor that the enemy was going to attack at midnight was being passed amongst them all. Both Dugak and Vaegon could tell that it was no mere gossip, so the dwarf quickened his pace.
The wing, where Mikahl lay, was far less crowded than the rest of the palace, but it was busier than it had been the last time Vaegon had looked in on his friend.
Mikahl lay just as he had before, seemingly peaceful, and still, save for his labored breathing. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and the slight rasping of his breath, indicated that he was still alive at all.
Fighting back a tear, a rare thing for an elf to be doing, Vaegon placed Ironspike atop Mikahl, just like it would be placed if he truly were dead.
The sheathed tip of the blade rested between Mikahl’s shins, and the cross-guard sat on his chest, near his heart. Vaegon gently took his friend’s hands, and grasped them to the leather wrapped hilt. They closed around it reflexively, and a moment of hope flared in the elf, but it was only a fleeting feeling. There was no strength in the grip; it was more like a baby’s hand grasping an offered finger, than anything.
Mikahl made no further movement. Vaegon stayed for a good while to make sure. He wasn’t sure why he did it, but the urge to slide the sheath off of Mikahl’s sword, was overwhelming. He was blinded with relief when the revealed section of the blade bloomed with brilliant blue light. It shone so brightly that it threw deep shadows across the magically lit room.
He studied his friend for a few more moments, hoping to see some sort of reaction to the reenergized blade’s magic, but none came. Feeling disappointed, but not completely so, because the sword had regained some, if not all of its power, the elf let out a long, frustrated sigh.
“I’ve got to find Hyden Hawk,” he said to Dugak.
The dwarf was slouched against the wall, finishing the last of his second bladder of liquor. When he was done, he tossed the skin aside and belched deeply.
“Be off then, elf,” he slurred. “I’ve had nuff runnin an’ frighting for one day. I’m old, and tiresome, and fleelin’ such.”
“And more than a little drunk, it seems,” Vaegon smiled, despite his sadness. “Don’t let anyone touch that sword.”
“That’s done, then. Iff’n ya see me lady dwarf, would you snend her my way, lad?” Dugak whispered, conspiratorially.