The castle’s protective walls, being not nearly as tall as the great outer walls had been, were quickly overtaken. The magi, even the novices and apprentices, cast spell after spell, creating barriers of thorn, or fire, to try and stop the undead soldiers, but it wasn’t enough. In a dozen, or more places, Pael’s rotting men were gaining the castle grounds in hordes. Even with the magnifying power of their proximity to the Wardstone to help fortify and intensify their spells, the dead came.
The soldiers of the Blacksword, fought tooth and nail to defend the castle though. They were relentless, and brave. Crowded in, and facing impossible numbers, they couldn’t win the advantage. For every undead that came over the wall, half a handful of Highwander men were killed, or injured.
Like maggots on the carcass of a rotting varmint, the dead army swarmed the breaches, and fought their way into the grounds. Queen Willa drew upon the power of the Wardstone, and sent silvery witch fire, and wicked blasts of static energy down upon them, but she could only do so much. Not only was she exhausted, but her own men were down there too, and she didn’t want to hurt them with her attacks. Through the trees of the forest park, from the roofs of the castle’s lower outbuildings, and around and even through the black blood stained waters of Whitten Loch, the undead came.
Eventually, they overtook the fierce Blacksword soldiers, and gained the castle’s entry. A sleek, black-scaled wyvern came soaring through the space where the depiction of Ironspike’s forging had once been. From the top of the Royal Tower, King Jarrek urged Queen Willa to come away, while she still could. She wouldn’t hear of it.
The screams of the people inside the castle were echoing up from below now. The wyvern was loose among them. It was all Willa could do to keep from collapsing in despair. She knew that if something didn’t happen soon, Xwarda was lost. And if Pael took Xwarda, it wouldn’t be long before he found a way to use the Wardstone. She was sworn to fight to protect the Wardstone to the end. She couldn’t leave, but she could at least send the thousands of people hiding in the tunnels below, on to Jenkanta, were they would at least have a chance to escape Pael’s wrath.
“Go,” she said to King Jarrek sternly. “The people who win free will need strong men to help them survive.”
“I cannot leave you here unguarded, lady,” he replied simply. “I will not.”
“You’re a chivalrous fool,” she told him. “Call down the order to evacuate the refugees then. Tell them to collapse the tunnels as they go.”
Chapter 58
Before Pael could hit him with another one of those bone jarring crimson pulses, Mikahl rolled, and twisted to his feet. He still had no breath in his lungs, and his head was spinning, but he knew that if he stood still, he was done for. Another hot red blast streaked toward him, and this time, he knocked it away with Ironspike’s blade, but he was still starting to panic. He knew he couldn’t keep this up for very long. His senses were already starting to fade into blackness. He needed air badly.
Pael sent another of his pulses. Mikahl tried to deflect this one with the sword, but his oxygen starved lack of coordination, made the attempt futile. The blast hit him, but it was only a searing graze, not a blunt impact. He was lucky. He would have taken the blow full on, had his body not involuntarily hiccupped, and sucked in a much needed gulp of air.
He couldn’t enjoy his body’s relief, because Pael was already blasting at him again. Twisting out of this missile’s way, Mikahl gulped in another breath, and charged the demon-wizard. Instead of relying on magic, he rode his instinct, and brought on a full-on physical assault with his sword. He slashed, spun, hacked, and thrust, leaving Pael no choice, but to forget his attack, and defend himself. The wizard could hardly keep the wicked steel from his flesh, much less mount an offense.
For several long moments, Pael thought that he might not survive the attack. The blade only had to touch him for his demon essence to be vanquished. Even worse, he could barely see out of his good eye, and it was next to impossible to tell where the bluish-lavender colored blade was coming from next. Only when Mikahl paused, to glance down at the sprawled form of the hawkling, lying limp, amid a pile of broken glass and splintered wood, did the wizard get the chance to make a move.
Pael leapt backwards into the air, and came to a hover just out of Ironspike’s range. He sent a crackling ray of viscous, prismatic energy down onto Mikahl, and showered him with the flesh melting stuff. As if he were standing inside a globe of translucent blue glass, the flow of Pael’s magic broke up into a purple swirl, around the Squire-King, leaving him unharmed.