The Sword and the Dragon wt-1

by Michael Robb Mathias

  “On the table boy,” Granfather said, with an excited grin on his wrinkled old face.

  Hyden set the bundle down gently on the table, while Gerard found their grandfather’s food box and pulled out some bread and cheese as if he owned the place. In council and in public, this man was the Eldest of the clan, and all of the Skylers treated him with the utmost respect, but here inside his harvest hut, just like in his home, he was just the grandfather of two excited boys.

  He leaned over the table and studied the chick for a moment, and then he brushed the long, silver-streaked hair out of his face and sat down. He motioned for the boys to do the same, indicating that Gerard could bring the bread and cheese with him.

  “This is a wondrous thing,” he said in his deep, scratchy voice. “Great things will come of this.” He looked to Gerard, then to Hyden, and the smile on his face slowly faded. “But there is the potential for terrible things as well.”

  Gerard handed Hyden some bread and cut them both some of the cheese as he spoke.

  “The story says that a man will harvest an egg and that it will hatch for him. Then, he and the hawkling will go off and do great things together.”

  “Aye, Gerard,” their grandfather agreed. “That the story does say.”

  He stood slowly, then walked to the other side of the little hut, and began rummaging through a pile of old furs and leather satchels.

  “The story though, is just that. It’s a story. The true legend is written in the old language-the language of dragons and wizards. It may or may not be a true prophesy. The Elders and I have often argued that.”

  He stopped speaking suddenly as something came to him. He dug around some more, and then pulled an object out of an old bag made from the skin of some shaggy mountain animal.

  “Here it is!” he exclaimed. “My father’s translation.” He opened the tattered volume and looked at the pages for a while.

  A few long moments passed, so long that it began to appear that he had forgotten the two boys sitting at his table.

  Hyden looked at his brother with a grin. He was about to clear his throat to politely remind the old man of their presence, but the hawkling chick did the job for him.

  The little featherless bird wiggled his body and rose trembling to its tiny, clawed feet. It extended its neck up into the air, opened its beak, and began screeching for food. Gerard immediately pulled some jerky from his pack and gave it to his older brother. Hyden chewed it up just like before. Once the meat was soft, he gave it to the bird.

  “Is this the first time you’ve fed it?” their grandfather asked with a look of childish excitement on his old face. He seemed to have forgotten his book entirely now, and he watched with rapt attention as Hyden took out another piece of chewed meat and fed it to the hungry bird.

  “Mmm-no,” Hyden answered as he chewed. “I fed it-mmm-once this-mmm-morn.”

  “Then it will be your familiar,” the old man said matter-of-factly. It was the voice of the clan Eldest speaking now, not their grandfather. “It will bond with you alone now, Hyden. You’re its mother.”

  All eyes seemed to fall on Gerard at that moment, searching for some sign of disappointment, or other ill reaction to the decision. Gerard wasn’t very upset. He had the ring after all. Besides, he told himself, what respectable clansman wanted to be a mother?

  “I and the Elders who are here at harvest will hold a council on this at moonrise,” their grandfather informed them as he opened up the old book again. “Stay near the lodges this night. We will want to speak to you about this… Both of you,” he added before Gerard could ask the question that had already formed on the tip of his tongue.

  Walking with his face in the old book, the Eldest gracefully shouldered his way through the elk skin door and was gone.

  Chapter 3

  “Where ye headed, Mik?” Ruddy, the nightshift stable master at Lakeside Castle’s Royal Stables, asked.

  “Can’t say,” Mikahl replied. Mikahl was the King of Westland’s personal squire, and the King had told him, with much distress in his voice, to prepare for a long journey, and to do so quietly. Mikahl was almost certain that by “quietly,” the King had meant undetected. Mikahl had asked if he should prepare the King’s mount as well, and the answer had been firm. “You’ll be going alone, Mik, and the journey will be a long one. No one can suspect that you’re leaving.”

  The conversation had taken place a short while ago when Mikahl and the king were alone, just after the feast for the Summer’s Day delegation. The oddness of it was just now starting to sink in. “Just be ready Mik,” King Balton had told him. “I’ll try to send for you, and give you more instruction later this night.”

  All of this was very cryptic to Mikahl. King Balton, the ruler of all of Westland, had seemed afraid. The way he had cleared the entire dining hall and whispered into Mikahl’s ear with wild, darting eyes, had been unnerving. To top it off, the King had sent Mikahl out through the back of the kitchens so that the bulk of the nobility, and the castle’s staff, would not see him depart. King Balton had never acted like this before, at least not around Mikahl. It was all very strange and Mikahl was beginning to worry about the King’s health. The man was fairly old, no one could doubt, but he had never acted like this before. Maybe he’d reached the end of his rope?

  “Bah!” Mikahl chided himself for thinking such thoughts. King Balton was a great man, fair, and wise beyond measure. He had been terribly kind to Mikahl, and his mother, before she had died. There had to be something wrong. The sudden journey must be extremely important for it to be so secret, and cause the king such distress.

  Mikahl looked at the nosy stable master, thought about it for a second, and then pulled a small, but fancy, silver flask out of his saddlebag.

  “They never tell me where I’m going or why,” Mikahl lied. “But it doesn’t matter at the moment because I’ve been itching to try this. I filled it from the royal cask at dinner.”

  “King Balton’s own brandy?” Ruddy asked eagerly.

  “The very same.” Mikahl took a sip and passed it to the man. “Missy, the servant girl, held the table’s attention by leaning over and wiggling her arse while I filled my tin.”

  Mikahl pretended to sip, and let the stable master slowly finish off the flask. His story worked like a charm. The size of Missy’s breasts was well known to every man on the castle staff. They were so large, that even the priests couldn’t keep their eyes off them. In truth, Mikahl drank from the King’s cask often. Doing so was just one of the many benefits that came with his job as King’s squire.

  There wasn’t enough liquor in the flask to put Ruddy down, but it was enough to dull his wits. With thoughts of Missy’s giant breasts swirling around in his head, his mind wouldn’t dwell on Mikahl and his business. At least Mikahl hoped not.

  Just as Mikahl finished loading his packhorse, a man peeked through the stable doors. After wrinkling his nose at the fresh, horsey smell, he told Mikahl that King Balton required his presence again – immediately.

  As Mikahl followed the scurrying servant through the castle’s myriad of torch-lit hallways, it became clear that they weren’t going to the council chamber, or the throne room, or even back to the dining hall. The ancient castle was a monstrosity of towers, hallways, apartments, and gardens, all added one on top of the other. Mikahl had been born in the servants’ wing almost twenty years ago. He had spent his entire youth running the castle’s halls and corridors, but he still hadn’t managed to see it all. The fourth flight of stairs they climbed told him exactly where they were going, though. They were going to the King’s personal bed chamber. Mikahl had visited the Royal Apartment only once since becoming the King’s squire.

  As they topped the stairs and turned from the landing to face the Royal Apartment’s large oak double doors, Lord Alvin Gregory came out. He was extremely pale, and the look of sadness on his face sent a chill through Mikahl’s blood.

  Lord Gregory was the King’s good friend and most truste
d adviser. He was also the current Lord of Lake Bottom Stronghold, and was known across the entire realm as the Lion Lord, or Lord Lion. This was because he fought with great courage, pride, and skill. He was the epitome of bravery, and a famous Summer’s Day brawling champion, but he looked nothing like that fierce and brave champion at the moment. His normally bright green eyes were haunted, and his expression was dark and grave.

  Mikahl had been Lord Gregory’s squire for three years prior to becoming the king’s squire. Lord Gregory had taught him the proper etiquette, customs, and everything else he needed to know to serve at King Balton’s side. The days Mikahl had spent at Lake Bottom learning from the Lion Lord were days he cherished deeply. The man was his mentor and his friend, and he could plainly tell that something horrible was afoot.

  Lord Gregory walked up to Mikahl and touched him on the cheek. He looked at the young squire long and hard, and then forced a smile. He gave Mikahl a nod that seemed to be full of equal parts of respect and regret, and then vanished down the stairwell without a word. Mikahl watched the empty air at the top of the landing long after Lord Lion had disappeared. The next thing he knew, the servant was pulling him by the sleeve toward the King’s chambers.

  The apartment was hot and silent. A dozen candles and a dim flickering lantern barely illuminated the beautifully furnished room. Mikahl had expected to see the King sitting in one of his high-backed chairs, or on one of the plush divans, but he was in his bed, under piles of thick covers.

  “Ah… Mikahl,” The King said weakly. A tired smile spread across his slick, gray face. Mikahl almost didn’t recognize this man as his King. Balton Collum looked so near to death that it made Mikahl’s head spin.

  A sharp glance from the King sent the servants, and the black-robed priest who was attending him, quickly out the door. As soon as they were alone, King Balton motioned for Mikahl to come sit at the edge of the bed.

  “We haven’t time to parley, Mik,” the old man rasped. “The poison has almost run its course.”

  “Poison?” Mikahl was aghast. Who would do such a thing? The king was loved and respected by all. Mikahl was shocked speechless as he slid off the edge of the bed, and knelt before the man that was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. He wondered how long the King had known that he was poisoned? King Balton seemed a little too accepting of the situation. Was that what all the secrecy was about? Was he dying? The look in King Balton’s eyes said so, but to Mikahl it didn’t make any sense.

  “Go to the temple by the north road gate,” King Balton whispered. “Father Petri has something for you to take with you on your journey. Take what he gives you deep into the Giant Mountains. A giant named Borg will find you and lead you to his King.”

  As if saying all of that had leeched the life from the poisoned old man, his head lulled to the side. For a long while all that moved were his eyeballs and his heaving chest.

  Mikahl wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

  “Borg?” he asked. Who in all the hells is Borg?

  “-esss. He is the Southern Guardian,” the dying King rasped almost inaudibly. “Go deep into the Giant Mountains, Mik. He will find you and lead you. Deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants.”

  Unable to comprehend anything other than the fact that his King was dying before his eyes, Mikahl ran to the door and ushered in the priest and the servants who had been attending him before.

  He stood there, watching in horror. One of the servants helped King Balton drink from a cup, while the priest started saying a prayer that Mikahl remembered all too well from his mother’s funeral a few years past.

  Suddenly, the King’s arm shot up and he pointed directly at the door. Wide, white eyes full of authority and love locked onto Mikahl’s. The King was ordering him to go. After wiping the tears from his face, he went and did his best not to look back. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  Ruddy, the Stable Master, mumbled something angrily at Mikahl as he reentered the stalls. The man was busy readying two other horses for departure. One was already saddled, and the other was waiting patiently for the half-drunken stableman. It was far too late for a jaunt through the woods. Mikahl recognized one of the horses as belonging to Lord Brach and that made him worry.

  Lord Brach, the lord of Westland’s northern territories, was Prince Glendar’s constant companion. Lord Brach and that creepy, bald-headed wizard, Pael, never seemed to leave the side of the heir to the Westland throne. Lord Boot-licker, King Balton had often called Brach in private, because the man agreed to everything that Prince Glendar or the wizard suggested. Mikahl was far from a nobleman, and he didn’t meddle in the games they played, but he knew that Prince Glendar was about to assume the throne now, and the rotten fool hadn’t been in his father’s favor for many years. Prince Glendar would gain the most from King Balton’s death. In Mikahl’s eyes, Prince Glendar, or one of his men, was most likely the murderer. Why else would they be preparing to ride at this time of the night?

  Mikahl suddenly realized that the very same thing would be said of his departure. As King Balton’s personal squire, he had enough access to have easily slipped him some poison. He would be a suspect, but Lord Gregory, and his wife, Lady Trella, would vouch for his integrity. Everyone close to King Balton knew that Mikahl loved and respected his king dearly. The problem was that soon-to-be King Glendar didn’t like Lord Gregory, nor did he know his own father’s heart very well. If Glendar had a part in his own father’s murder, then Mikahl could easily end up being the scapegoat. It didn’t matter at the moment though; his King had given him orders from the deathbed. He would find this giant named Borg and deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants, or he would die trying to do so.

  Mikahl didn’t want Lord Brach or his men following him. He had to find a way to slow them down. He walked over to where Ruddy was working and tapped the unsuspecting man on the shoulder. As the Stable Master turned, Mikahl slugged him heavily across the jaw. Ruddy fell into a heap on the stable’s dirty floor. Mikahl then led the two other horses to the running pen behind the stable. He sent them galloping off into the darkness with a sharp slap on their rumps.

  Wasting no time in preparing for his own departure, he mounted his horse, Windfoot, and led his packhorse out the unattended gate that opened onto the cobbled streets of the inner city. He did exactly as King Balton had instructed him to do, and went straight to the chapel.

  Father Petri was expecting him. The priest seemed both sad and nervous as he led Mikahl and both of his horses up the entry steps and into the chapel.

  The chapel’s vaulted ceiling was high overhead and row after row of empty wooden pews spread out to each side. Sitting on a horse, whose clomping hoof beats echoed loudly and deeply into the huge and otherwise empty chamber, Mikahl felt very out of place. As they made their way down the center aisle toward the altar, the gods and goddesses all seemed to be scowling down at him from their permanent places in the colored glass along the higher reaches of the walls. One of the horses whinnied nervously and the ghastly sound sent a chill snaking up Mikahl’s back.

  “Come, Mikahl,” the priest said. He took the reins of the packhorse from Mikahl and led them out of the worship hall, down a long corridor, through several arched doorways, and then into a large, nearly empty room at the back of the church. Mikahl had never seen this room before and it shocked him. It was not the sort of room he would have ever expected to find in a hall of worship. One entire wall was a huge, steel-banded door that resembled a gate. Two of the other three walls were covered with pegs. Hanging from the pegs were hundreds of weapons: swords, crossbows, long bows and pikes, as well as shields, helmets, and miscellaneous pieces of chain and plate armor.

  “It’s a secret way out of the castle for the King in the event of a siege.” Father Petri answered the question in Mikahl’s mind. “You follow the briar path to the right, along the wall, until you come to the discharge drains. Then, follow the smelly stream away from the ca
stle until you are well into the Northwood. Stay away from the city. People are about in Castleview even in the late hours. If you have to, stay in the woods until you reach Crossington. Once you are that far north, you should be safe to go wherever the king has told you to go.”

  Mikahl had hoped to gain some insight from Father Petri as to who Borg was, and where exactly he was supposed to go, but the priest’s last statement indicated he was unaware of Mikahl’s destination. Mikahl had at least a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. He did ask the one question that couldn’t wait.

  “King Balton said you had something for me. What?” This was all too much for Mikahl to understand, so he tried not to think about it. He knew what he had been told to do. It wasn’t his place to question it.

  Father Petri gave a short nod, reached into his robes, and produced an ornate leather scroll case.

  “This is the message for you to deliver.” He bent down, lifting something heavy from the floor, and offered it up to Mikahl. It was a long, black leather sleeve, such as might be used to protect a prized longbow or an expensive two-piece staff. Mikahl carefully secured the scroll case in his saddlebag and took the item.

  He knew what it was the moment he felt the weight of it in his hands. The consequences of having it came flooding into his brain and he almost dropped it in fear. He had to search deeply in his heart for courage. It was Ironspike, King Balton’s notorious sword. He knew because he had polished it a thousand times as part of his duty as the king’s squire. He had seen firsthand the wealth of gold and jewels inlaid into the leather-wrapped hilt and cross guard. He had seen the covetous looks of those who longed to possess it, and he had seen the fear it could inspire. He had watched the magical blade glow red hot as it clipped Lord Clyle’s insolent head from his shoulders, and he remembered vividly seeing King Balton dispatch at least a dozen of the feral half-breed giants with it during the Battle of Coldfrost. Its actual weight was slight compared to his old iron sword, but holding it now made Mikahl want to crumble.