The Sword and the Dragon wt-1

by Michael Robb Mathias

  Hyden asked many questions, and was disappointed to learn that these later tales were more from secondhand sources. Loudin had never been to Xwarda himself, but he had been to Highwander’s Port cities of Weir, Old Port, and New Port. Loudin had seen enough magic on those docks to know that a lot of what he had heard about Xwarda wasn’t exaggerated.

  Mikahl listened intently, and wondered at it all. He had heard a lot of things while serving as King Balton’s Squire, but he chose to keep his knowledge and speculation to himself. He let Hyden do all the questioning, and gained even more respect for the mountain clansman. Not only was he in supreme physical condition, his mind was sharp and his queries were well chosen.

  Thinking about chumming around a campfire, reminded Mikahl of just how cold he was at the moment. He was miserable, and felt that if he ever stopped shivering, he would freeze into a solid statue of ice. He hated the cold, and he was glad that this was the last high altitude pass they would have to traverse for awhile.

  According to Hyden and the elf, a rich, warm valley lay on the other side of this ridge. They would hopefully be able to lay up there and wait for the giants to come to them. Both Loudin and Hyden Hawk agreed that it was a strange thing that Borg had not already found and questioned them. They said that no group of men ever made it this far into the Giant Mountains without the Southern Guardian greeting them.

  It came as a welcome relief to all of them that they would be making camp soon. Hyden explained over the icy wind, that Talon had spied a cave, which looked big enough to hold all four of them, and the three horses as well. It was ideal, because from there, they could reach the protection of the valley early the next day. A good, warm fire, and a long needed rest, would benefit them all. Six days of rough up and down mountain traveling, had taken its toll on even the hardiest of them.

  They reached the cavern with plenty of light left in the sky, so while Loudin tended to the horses, and Vaegon helped Mikahl scrounge up enough wood to start a fire, Hyden and Talon went off to hunt up some fresh meat. Mikahl ended up chattering, pacing, and rubbing his hands together, trying to thaw out enough to be of assistance, but by the time he had quit shivering, a fire was burning, and the horses were unsaddled, and eating oats from muzzle bags.

  The cavern was featureless: rocky walls, a rocky ceiling, and an uneven rocky floor. Remnants of past travelers littered the place: most of a torn jerkin; a good length of poorly made braided rope; a single well-worn boot, among other things. Luckily, there were a few sticks of firewood. Someone had once used soot to draw a scene of stick men and horned creatures on one wall, but it was faded. There were also a few strange symbols, daubed in something more permanent, possibly blood, by the entryway. To Mikahl, it was just a cave; a cave that was getting warmer and more comfortable by the moment.

  “You’d think that you were the one from way down south,” Loudin joked at Mikahl. “I know it snows and freezes around that castle you were raised in. I’ve been there. You act like you’ve never been cold before.”

  “You’ve said the exact same thing three nights in a row now.” Mikahl shook his head. “Are you getting forgetful in your old age?”

  Loudin laughed at this, and sat down by the blaze Vaegon had created.

  “What about you elf? Does it get this cold in the Evermore Forest?”

  Vaegon put down the small leather-bound journal, which he sometimes wrote in while the others carried on around the fire. He tilted his head thoughtfully, as if he were remembering something fond.

  “Not so cold in the Evermore, no,” he answered. “But there are places that my people travel, places we visit that have a climate very similar to this one.”

  He pointed at the old cavern’s roof. It had been blackened by hundreds upon hundreds of campfires.

  “…places far less hospitable than this cozy cavern.” The last was said with a slight grin at Loudin.

  “Bah!” Mikahl blurted. He finally felt warm enough to open up the front of his fur coat. He eventually stood and removed it. “I can’t imagine any place less hospitable than these mountains.” He plopped down on a rock near Loudin, with a long, loud groan.

  “You dare call me old, boy?” Loudin laughed. “You’ll never make half my age if you’re in such bad shape now. That sounded awful.”

  Mikahl gave him a severe stare, but couldn’t keep his mouth from curving upward at its corners.

  “Bah!” he said again, with a roll of his eyes.

  “These are but foothills, compared to the heart of this mountain range,” Vaegon told Mikahl. “There are places so high above the sea, that even the valleys stay frozen year round; places that none of us could survive an hour in, much less a whole day.”

  “Well, the giants can keep those places for themselves. I’ve already gotten my fill of the Highlands. If I didn’t have to be here, I would’ve left long ago.”

  “Aye, we shouldn’t have to be up here this far anyway,” said Loudin. “Old Borg is either caught up in something nasty, or he’s grown lax and forgetful of his duties. I’m fairly certain that his old mind hasn’t begun to slip just yet. I imagine that somewhere along the border, something has attracted him, and is keeping him occupied for the moment.”

  Loudin shrugged off his fur coat and piled it into a cushion, and then leaned back into it.

  “The two other times I came up here, he met us after the first big pass. No one travels long in these mountains without his knowledge, I assure you.”

  “You said that the last four nights as well. How can one giant guard the whole of the giant kingdom?” Mikahl was skeptical. He had asked Hyden the same question one day, but all he had gotten for an answer was a shrug and, “I wish I knew.”

  “He doesn’t,” Loudin answered, with a sly glance at the elf. “He just guards the southern border.” They chuckled at the frustrated expression that came across Mikahl’s face.

  “Bah!” Mikahl growled. “You know what I meant old man.” Then to Vaegon, who was struggling to bite back his laugh. “You too Cyclops. I want to know. How does one giant guard thousands of miles of foothills all by himself?”

  Whether stunned by the well-placed, but good natured insult to his one eyed condition, or maybe just pondering his response, Vaegon paused with raised brows for a moment before responding. The elf looked angry, and possibly a bit wounded by the jab. Seconds turned into hours as the tense moment passed. Finally, as he started to reply, a grin crept across the elf’s face.

  “Well Mikahl, he’s only guarding his kingdom from mere humans. How many more giants do you think he would really need?”

  Mikahl didn’t realize, at first, that the elf had mocked his humanity. His mind had gone back to a memory of the bloody ordeal at Coldfrost.

  He, King Balton, and Westland’s Northern Muster had battled the giants there for most of a winter a few years back. Mikahl had been told that those weren’t full blooded giants. They were a wild and primitive cross-breed, driven by an animalistic instinct. They had been eight and nine feet tall, overly hairy, with slightly snouted faces, and mouths full of sharp carnivorous teeth. They fought like they were demon-possessed.

  He had just been promoted to King’s Squire then, and hadn’t earned King Balton’s full trust yet, so he hadn’t been privy to why the battle was being waged. He hadn’t been allowed to fight, even though he was one of the better swordsmen on the field, but he had seen the carnage firsthand. He had also seen the power of Ironspike. King Balton had taken quite a few giants down with it, before using it to create the magical boundary that still imprisons those Breed Giants to this day. Mikahl couldn’t realistically imagine a single giant being able to stand against Ironspike’s might, so it took some time for the joke to register in his mind. When it finally did, he didn’t think it was all that funny, but since he liked the one-eyed elf so much, he faked a laugh.

  It became clear to Mikahl then, that neither of these two would-be jesters, knew exactly how the giant named Borg did his duty.

  In the s
ilence that followed, Mikahl let his mind wander further. Of course, his thoughts went to the sword and Lord Gregory’s unfathomable proclamation. Mikahl had spent a lot of time dwelling on the possibility that he was actually King Balton’s bastard. He had come to the conclusion that it was the truth. The King had gone to great lengths to train and educate him in everything, from table manners and mathematics, to military tactics and weapons play. He had been taught the qualifications and proper duties of all of Westland’s lords and nobles. He knew, from Page to Prince, what every titled person in Balton’s kingdom was supposed to be doing for the throne.

  The only exception was Pael. He had never been told what the Royal Wizard’s true duties were, and when he had asked, his instructors always avoided the subject. King Balton had made sure that he understood his numbers, and the history of the land, and that he read and understood certain books out of the castle’s library. King Balton had often inquired about the contents of a book while they rode out to a stronghold, or were on a hunt.

  Mikahl remembered fondly the trips to various lords’ and nobles’ holds for weddings, funerals, and other functions. King Balton never rode in the Royal Carriage. That was where Prince Glendar and the wizard always traveled. King Balton rode his horse, Firewind, Windfoot’s sire, and everywhere he went, he kept Mikahl close at hand.

  There were days that he and King Balton rode surrounded by guardsmen, who kept their distance, so that he and the King could speak quietly, and there were nights where the titles of king, captain, duke and squire somehow got lost in the flames, as flasks of brandy-wine were passed around the campfire.

  Looking back, Mikahl could see that he was being trained and tested all along, a lot of the time by King Balton himself. He had been raised by a father who didn’t dare claim him as his son. The idea of that stung, but not so bad that it tainted the memory. Mikahl had faith that King Balton had had good reason for the subterfuge. It was the idea that he was supposed to someday rule Westland that seemed so preposterous to him. Prince Glendar was the King now, and he surely wanted his father’s sword back. He had probably ordered that creepy wizard, Pael, to send that beast after them. Thankfully, the thing had fled. Hopefully it would stay gone.

  Mikahl had to admit to himself that he liked the feel of Ironspike in his hands. Its magical symphony was glorious and thrilling to experience, but he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to be a king. The elf, who had been in the sick bed next to Lord Gregory when the old lion had told Mikahl who his father was, had later said, “Your lack of want is most likely why you were the one King Balton wanted to be his heir.”

  When Mikahl had asked Vaegon what that meant, the elf said, “One who wants to be a king, obviously wants the title for all the wrong reasons. No good, reasonable, or honorable man would want to have the responsibility of ruling over others. He might accept that responsibility as his duty, but he would be wary of it, not crave it.”

  Mikahl thought long and hard about that, and it made sense. Prince Glendar had always wanted to succeed his father, and Mikahl couldn’t imagine that spoiled brat being either fair or honorable. He hated to think what sort of shape Westland was in at the moment. Mikahl figured that chaos reigned between the land holders, the nobility, and the new king.

  He was torn from his thoughts, by the sudden appearance of Talon fluttering into the cavern. The hawkling landed near the fire, and began chirping, and pacing back and forth excitedly. Mikahl and Loudin both looked at Vaegon with alarm on their faces. The elf had been traveling with Hyden when they had met them, so it was up to him to interpret what the bird was trying to convey.

  The possibilities of mishap were endless in this sort of terrain; falling rock, falling ice, collapsing footholds, not to mention the vast array of predators that called these inhospitable mountains home. Everyone’s mind raced through the myriad possibilities of harm that might have befallen Hyden. Loudin went so far as to throw on his coat and start digging through the packs for rope.

  “Is Hyden alright?” Vaegon asked Talon.

  He wasn’t as worried as the other two. He was sure that if Hyden was in a dire situation, Talon would be pecking on one of their heads with his sharp beak, or trying to pull one of them up to his feet, with a claw full of hair. Neither Hyden, nor his hawkling familiar, were capable of much subtlety.

  The bird squawked in response to the question. Vaegon took that as a negative.

  “What then?” he asked.

  Loudin paused his rummaging.

  “Has he found Borg?” he asked hopefully.

  Talon cawed out, and leapt into the air. After circling the cavern once, he landed on Loudin’s head, and cooed. An almost visible blanket of relief lifted from them all.

  “I think we should make up some sort of code to talk with Hyden through Talon,” Mikahl said, while giving the hawkling a peculiar look. “Hyden, have Talon peck Loudin’s head twice, if you agree.”

  Talon cocked his head to the side for a moment, and then leaned over, and sharply pecked the old hunter’s forehead twice. Before Loudin could react, Talon flew to the other side of the fire, landed near Mikahl, and bobbed his head up and down with glee. Mikahl and Vaegon burst into a fit of hysterical laughter. Loudin scowled at them, and rubbed the red spot on his forehead briskly. Hyden, like Mikahl, had a great sense of humor.

  The giant, Borg, stood just over fourteen feet tall. He wasn’t even close to being the tallest of his race. The club he carried – he called it a staff – was made out of the trunk of an old pine tree, whose resin like sap had been hardened in the Cauldron at Afdeon. The base of it was as big around as Hyden’s waist, and so were the giant’s upper arms. Borg’s hair was long, dark, and streaked with silvery gray, as was the thick beard, which trailed down his chest. His pants, and knee length vest coat, were a patchwork of thick furred animal skins. The long sleeved shirt he wore underneath was made from a dark and well tanned elk’s hide. His boots looked to be made of a thicker sort of pelt. The fur was as white as the snow he was standing in. Mounted on the bridge of each foot, was a toothy skull that matched the one mounted on his belt buckle. What the giant’s hair, mustache, and beard didn’t cover of his face, the long bushy eyebrows did. Even though his eyes were the size of plums, they seemed hidden underneath them. The huge slab of Borg’s forehead was the most prominent, and the most exposed of his features.

  Hyden saw a glint of curiosity sparkle from the depths of Borg’s sockets, as the approaching giant mused over his sudden burst of laughter. Hyden didn’t think he could explain the long distance jest that had just played out on Loudin’s skull, so he did his best to suppress his mirth.

  Borg was more than a little intimidating, even to one who had met him before. Hyden wanted to be taken seriously by the Southern Guardian, because he was sure that Mikahl’s business with King Aldar was important, as well as urgent. He put on a face, similar to the ones he’d seen his father and grandfather use when dealing with the giants: stern and serious. He then searched his memory of Berda’s tales for a hint of the proper etiquette and greeting to use in the situation.

  Confident now that he wouldn’t make a fool of himself, Hyden started through the ice and snow to greet Borg. He caught himself fighting back a grin as he went. He hadn’t been able to see Loudin’s expression when he told Talon to peck his head, but he imagined it was a sight to see. His grin faded, when the deep creases of concern splitting Borg’s huge forehead became clear through the swirling snow. It was an intense look, a look that cut far deeper into Hyden than the icy blast of wind that preceded the giant.

  “What business would cause you to guide two kingdom men, and an elf, into these lands, son of Harrap?” Borg asked harshly.

  Hyden couldn’t believe that the giant recognized him as his father’s son, but he had.

  Obviously the giant wouldn’t know which son he was, so he clarified the matter.

  “I am Hyden, eldest son of Harrap,” Hyden said. “One of the kingdom men, a tattooed hunter called Loudin, says
he knows you. He has brought something of value he thinks you will want to barter for.”

  Hyden paused to gauge Borg's reaction. He hoped the giant actually knew Loudin and remembered him if he did. The giant’s nod assured him that it was so.

  “The other kingdom man has urgent messages for King Aldar. He carries those and a sword that -” He let his voice trail off there. He wasn’t sure how much information he should divulge. He didn’t want to mislead Borg, nor did he want to betray Mikahl’s trust. He found that he suddenly wished he hadn’t mentioned the sword at all.

  Borg was silent for a long moment. He looked haggard, and worried over serious matters beyond the issue before him. Hyden noticed that there were dark stains all around the base of the giant’s big staff. Some were old, and a brownish black in color, but some were slick and glossy red. A patch of yellow could be seen where a piece of the wood had been chipped or torn away recently.

  “What about the elf?” Borg finally asked.

  “The elf,” Hyden searched for an explanation that made sense, but couldn’t come up with one. He ended up saying the first thing that came to his mind, which was also the least believable of any answer he could have given. “Vaegon is my friend.”