Kings, Queens, Heroes, & Fools

by M. R. Mathias

  The clansmen didn’t own or ride horses, but on several occasions Lord Gregory rode on the dead Seawardsman’s mount. It wasn’t long after that he was feeling well enough to leave the Skyler Clan and their hospitality behind him. The desire to find his wife was gnawing at him like a starving dog at a bone.

  He would have rather taken Mikahl’s proud and well trained horse, Windfoot, but he left the steed because Borg had promised Mikahl that it would be there when he came for it.

  He waited until it was warm enough to get out of the mountains without freezing, and then, after a long respectful goodbye, he left the Skyler Clan behind. He pointed the horse south toward Wildermont, and with all the hope in the world, he set off to find his wife.

  Chapter Two

  Mikahl reared back with his blade as he slipped to the side of the sword the dark haired man before him had just thrust out. To the onlookers, Mikahl looked like a young lion with his intense expression and his thick golden mane flying about. The man he was fighting, Brady Culvert, growled in frustration through gnashed teeth because he had to spin to get clear of Mikahl’s gleaming, arcing swing. He managed it, but barely. He lost his balance in the process and almost fell. Mikahl rode the momentum of his slash all the way around, but this time, instead of resuming his guard, he feigned a chest-high slice. As soon as the other man committed to his unbalanced defensive guard, Mikahl deftly lowered his blade to thigh level, and struck with force.

  Mikahl’s dulled steel thumped wickedly into Brady Culvert’s leather thigh pad. The small group of swordsmen gathered in the training yard grimaced with sympathy then called out praises and jests alike. Brady couldn’t hear them over his own cursing. Mikahl had horse-knotted his leg and it hurt like hell. Brady wasn’t angry though. He had just won a small fortune in wagers by lasting over five minutes sparring against High King Mikahl. It was a record. No one in all of Highwander had managed to make it even three minutes against the treacherous young king of the realm.

  “If he’d been using Ironspike, Brady, you’d be legless,” King Jarrek, the displaced king of Wildermont, commented as a squire began unbuckling Brady’s leather armor from the back. Another squire took the dulled sword from the combatant’s hand.

  “If he had Ironspike in his hands, I would have been fighting with him, not against him, Highness.” Brady smiled back at King Jarrek. After settling their debts, the men broke up and went back to their practice drills. The victor smiled at his congratulations, then went over to a small table where an old retired warrior was keeping time with minute glasses.

  King Mikahl hadn’t been wearing armor at all—only a pair of calfskin britches, and a green silk shirt trimmed in gold. Those were the colors of his dead father’s Westland banner, and after several long minutes of dodging and deflecting Brady Culvert’s blade, he hadn’t even darkened them with sweat. His hair had gone wild though, and he made a futile attempt to smooth it back into some sense of order before making his announcment.

  “Seven full minutes and almost half a glass more,” King Mikahl called out with a nod of respect. “The cream of the crop, without a doubt.”

  Brady Culvert was twenty-two years old, three years older than High King Mikahl. Brady had been one of King Jarrek’s feared and revered Redwolf guards and had worn his crimson enameled plate mail proudly. Their kingdom had been decimated last summer by the Westland wizard Pael. Brady, acting on orders from his King, rode all the way across the continent warning the other kingdoms of the approaching doom. He’d been in the Red City of Dreen warning the Valleyans when that battle started. He escaped the evil wizard’s hordes only to be captured later by a group of Queen Rachel’s Seaward soldiers. Somehow he’d won free of them and made it all the way to Xwarda, where Pael and his undead army were already attacking.

  Most of the people of Wildermont, including Brady’s family, had been sold into slavery, and all winter long, King Jarrek had been here in Xwarda training a group of handpicked men to go into Dakahn to free them. High King Mikahl, being a great swordsman, trained with them rigorously. In fact, he trained easily twice as hard as any man in the group. He had a temper, and in order to keep it under control, he intentionally exhausted himself at least once a day.

  “…not good enough to stay alive if we faced each other in actual combat,” Brady was saying in response to Mikahl’s comment.

  “Aye,” the High King grinned proudly, but without cockiness. “In actual combat, Sir Culvert, you’d have never had the chance to draw your sword.”

  For the most part formalities and titles were forbidden on the Royal Training Yard. Unlike the yards where Queen Willa’s Blacksword soldiers trained, where sergeants and captains put regiments of men through long brutal repetitions, often accompanied by much yelling and screaming, here, men were just men. Crowns and thrones and holdings meant nothing. It was one of the few places a man might jest with his king without fear of reproach. The use of the word ‘Sir’ by King Mikahl when speaking to Brady displayed volumes of respect and Brady Culvert beamed for it. So much so that he’d missed the humor in the High King’s ridiculous boast. King Jarrek didn’t miss the jab though, and he laughed heartily.

  “That one will do,” Mikahl said after Brady had gone. “I want him to go with Hyden Hawk, if you’d spare him. My friend needs a sword he can trust on this wild expedition he is planning.”

  “I thought you’d keep him for yourself Mik,” King Jarrek said a little disappointedly.

  “I would if there were someone as capable with the blade going along with Hyden,” replied Mikahl. “Why is it that you refuse to take him with your group? He’s your countryman, and you’ve known him his whole life, or so he says.”

  “It’s true. I was drinking with his father when he was being born, but his father was killed right before his eyes, by Westlanders, and his mother, sisters, and cousins may be the very slaves we come across in O’Dakahn. Just like another great swordsman I know, his emotions are too highly strung. Besides that, if one of the slaves recognizes him, then it could jeopardize the others. The men I hand-picked are all from Highwander. They have no emotional involvement in what we’re going to do. I think it’s better that way.”

  It pained Mikahl deeply to hear of the horrible deeds that his Westland countrymen had done under the leadership of his stepbrother King Glendar and Pael. Mikahl sometimes wondered how Jarrek kept from hating him for being a true Westlander.

  “It makes good sense then, to send him with Hyden Hawk, but what if one of the slaves recognizes you?” Mikahl asked.

  “I had no beard when I sat my throne at Castlemont, and no one in all the lands, save for a few here in Xwarda, have ever seen me dressed as anything less than a king. It will be easy for me to go unnoticed, I assure you.”

  “Not if you keep speaking like a king. Commoners don’t use words like you do. Maybe you should spend some time out in the markets, or at the Squalor, where they speak with less pomp and formality.” Mikahl laughed at the idea of it. King Jarrek was naturally as regal as a man could be.

  “I may just do that,” said Jarrek as they started toward the bath-house. His expression showed that he was seriously contemplating Mikahl’s suggestion and it made Mikahl laugh even harder. When the mirth died away, Mikahl changed the subject.

  “Can you believe that Queen Willa actually wants me to propose to this Princess Rosa?” The High King’s voice was incredulous. “I don’t even know her.”

  “It might be necessary to secure Queen Rachel’s full support,” explained Jarrek. “The Princess is as pretty a girl as there ever was. Have you seen her?”

  “No, but it’s not fair!” He felt like a little boy whose mother was calling him to come inside early instead of letting him stay out in the cobbles to play with his friends. “Her mother tried to attack Xwarda after sacking two Highwander cities. I don’t understand how Queen Willa could even think of us making such an alliance.”

  It was Jarrek’s turn to laugh. After a moment he grew serious and stopped Mik
ahl to look into his eyes . “Seaward has fighting men, Mikahl. The few thousand men Queen Rachel sent to help King Broderick attack here was a token offer at best. You have to remember that Glendar, or Pael, or whoever was behind the attack at Summer’s Day, set all of this into motion. They flew Willa’s Blacksword banner when they did it. Rachel had to do something, and thankfully she did as little as possible.” He put his arm around Mikahl’s shoulder in a fatherly manner. “Remember, it’s a proposal, not a marriage. Later, after Queen Rachel has bowed to you publicly, then you can politely change your mind, but I doubt you’ll do that. You’ll not find a more beautiful and polite girl in all the realm.”

  “If and when I marry, I want it to be for love,” Mikahl said naively. “Anything less just doesn’t seem to be, what’s the word? Honorable?”

  “Being a good king isn’t a very honorable business sometimes,” said King Jarrek. “Every single time we do something good for somebody, someone else is upset about it. That is why honorable men don’t usually want to be king.”

  “Aye,” Mikahl agreed with a huff of frustration. “I should’ve gone a few more rounds out in the yards,” he mumbled to himself as King Jarrek was pulled away by a question from one of his men.

  Queen Willa was having a welcome feast for Princess Rosa later in the day. It hadn’t even started yet, but already Mikahl was getting aggravated by the mess. The bath was hot and relaxing and went far toward easing his tension. It was peaceful in these particular bathhouses, which were for the use of those training in the Royal Weapons Yard. If Mikahl tried to bathe anywhere else he’d be swamped with bowing servants, over eager attendants, and all the other amenities of his position that made his blood boil. What he’d give to be able to eat anonymously with the squires and pages this night. The only formalities he’d find there were belching contests, dice, and the laces on a willing servant girl’s girdle.

  A sharp repetitive thumping sound caught his attention and he turned in the wooden tub to see what it was. A wide wingspan of dark brown feathers swirled the steam and the tiny, yet widening yellow ring of a hawkling’s focusing eye found him. The bird gave a weak apologetic caw then proceeded to flap its way out of the room, dragging Mikahl’s robe with it.

  “Talon, no!” Mikahl screamed as he looked around and saw that there was nothing at all to cover himself with. “Blasted Hyden!” he swore. As angry as he was becoming, he couldn’t hold back the smile that stretched across his face. He and Hyden took great pride in the pranks they pulled on each other, and this was a good one. Princess Rosa was here at the castle, and by the time the feast gathered this evening, the gossipers and rumor mongers would have a lot to talk about. Mikahl wasn’t about to be meek about it. He would strut across the practice yard naked if he had to. His fierce pride wouldn’t allow any less.

  “You just wait Hyden. I’ll get—” Mikahl was yelling as he burst out of the door that opened into the corner of the training yard. His voice died quickly away. His heart leapt into his throat when he saw the girl who was waiting there with Hyden. She was suddenly wide-eyed and having to stifle her giggles. Talon leapt from Hyden’s wrist and flew to perch on a piece of training equipment a fair distance away and began preening himself innocently.

  The well-bloomed young girl with Hyden was beautiful beyond reason, with sparkling blue eyes, full pouty lips, and long wavy brown hair that flowed down over her shoulders. Her day dress was colored the very same shade of green as the Westland banner, and it hugged her curvaceous figure well. Her skin was golden, but mottled roses had suddenly appeared on her cheeks.

  “Oh, sorry, Mik,” Hyden shrugged with an ear-to-ear grin on his face. His long black hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, and gave his face a hawkish look that eerily resembled Talon’s. “They told me you were taking a hot bath, not a cold one.”

  Princess Rosa’s mouth had formed a perfect ’O ‘. She whirled and whacked Hyden across the chest. Hyden could barely contain himself. He was about to explode with laughter.

  “Yew seed that he was feeding some earphaned beer cubs!” she shrieked in a heavily accented voice as she stalked off. A pair of equally flustered and giggling attendants, and a slightly older woman who was still openly eyeing Mikahl’s naked body, appeared from the background to receive the girl and usher her off.

  Hyden lost all control of his mirth and was laughing so hard that he actually fell to a knee and held his stomach. As the training yard door slammed shut behind the Princess of Seaward and her entourage, applause erupted from some of the braver men; there were whistles and jeers as well.

  Chapter Three

  Hyden Skyler spent the winter up in Dahg Mahn’s tower learning to read and write. It was Hyden’s tower now, even though everyone still referred to it as Dahg Mahn’s. The great wizard had disappeared ages ago, but had left a trial, a series of tests that one must pass to win entry into his sacred Xwardian abode. Hundreds of magi had tried to enter, but only Hyden Hawk Skyler had done so.

  Targon, the old High Wizard of Xwarda, had died with the elf Vaegon in a mighty battle against a Choska demon on the outer wall, as Pael’s undead hordes swarmed into the city. Queen Willa had named two of his underlings to take his place. The new High Wizards assigned apprentices to help Hyden in his endeavors. Hyden’s desire to overcome his ignorance drove him, and now he was reading well, if a little haltingly at times. His writing skills were still lacking, however. He could scratch and scribble enough to get by, but nothing more. His favorite apprentice, a skinny blond-headed orphan boy of fourteen summers named Phenilous, had given him the most help. He and Phen had become fast friends. Hyden was nearing twenty summers himself, but was still a boy at heart. He had a natural gift for magic and he could communicate with animals through his familial link with his hawkling, Talon. Phen’s grammatical skills were superb, but his magical skills were lacking in the sense that they were stiff and studied, and came not from the heart, but from repetition and memory. Hyden Hawk’s magic was pure—not learned, but felt. Over the winter, the two of them garnered a great deal from each other and had serious fun in the process.

  Hyden was planning a grand quest. Since it was Phen who had done the bulk of research into the great blue dragon, Cobalt, and the treasure he had stolen from the pirate Barnacle Bones, Phen was trying to get Hyden, and the two High Wizards to let him go on the adventure. Hyden didn’t mind at all. In fact he liked the idea of Phen going, but there would be danger, and the boy was only an apprentice. Hyden wouldn’t dare disrespect Queen Willa’s wizards by assuming anything. Only if they agreed, would he add Phen to his growing roster of campaigners.

  “What did they say?” Hyden asked the boy as he was getting dressed for the evening’s feast. Phen was a lowly apprentice and hadn’t been invited to the event, but it didn’t bother him. He didn’t really want to have to use manners and act serious all evening long.

  Phen smirked in approval as he entered the room. Hyden had sensed him there before he had seen him. It was a simple awareness spell they had been working on, and Hyden had used it perfectly.

  “Master Amill seems to think I could learn a lot on such an excursion,” Phen said. “Master Sholt, on the other hand, thinks that it will be too dangerous, and that I’ll just be underfoot.”

  “When I was your age, my father had me harvesting hawkling eggs on cliffs higher than this tower,” Hyden said, a little miffed at the reasoning. “I’ll try and talk some sense into them this evening, Phen. Master Sholt is coming to the feast, is he not?”

  “I believe so.” Phen seemed pleased that Hyden was going to speak for him. He had been worried that Hyden had only been pacifying him with his talk of taking him along on the quest for Barnacle Bones’s stolen booty. “We don’t need treasure, though, Hyden. Queen Willa’s got all the gold in Highwander already.”

  Hyden laughed. “You can do better than that, Phen.”

  “Why won’t you tell me what it is that we’re really after?” the boy asked with an ear to ear grin.

&
nbsp; “I’ll tell you only this…” Hyden turned from the reflecting glass and looked seriously at the boy. Phen stifled a laugh. Hyden’s robe was bunched all wrong on one side.

  “What is it?” Hyden turned back to the reflecting glass.

  “Here,” Phen came over and straightened the fancy silver trimmed white robe. “Now what were you going to tell me?”

  Hyden loved drawing stuff out with the boy. Phen’s impatience was entertaining, but he was in a hurry, so he told him what he wanted to know—at least part of it. “When the dragon, Claret, and I finished sealing the demon back into the Nethers, she told me...”

  “I know, I know this part,” said Phen as if the balance of the world’s fate hung in what came next. “She told you about Cobalt the blue drake, and the pirate ship, but what is it we are really after? What’s in that booty that you want so badly, Hyden?”

  Hyden laughed aloud at that. Phen was as sharp as a whip’s crack. It was one of the reasons he liked the boy so much. “Claret told me that among the treasures the dragon stole was a silver skull with eyes of jade, but if you tell a soul that that’s what we’re after, I’ll skin you and hang you from a banner pole.”

  “The Silver Skull of Zorellin, but...”

  “But nothing! You keep your mouth shut about it or I’ll have Talon pluck your eyes out.”

  Just then Talon flew from his perch near the open window and landed on Phen’s outstretched arm. The hawkling was as tall as Phen’s arm was long, and he had taken a liking to the boy.

  “Traitor,” Hyden said to his familiar. “I guess I have no choice but to convince your masters to let you come with me now that I’ve spilled the stew.”

  “Spilled the stew?” Phen giggled. “You really are a bumpkin, Hyden. King Mikahl was right. I can’t believe you grew up in a place where people don’t ride horses and live inside dirt hills.”