“We…uh…I didn’t do na… nothing t’ you man!” Donniel stammered, trying to buy Jerup some time. “We…uh… Didn’t get away with anything. So… no harm right?”
Mikahl untied the pack horse’s reins with a blank doubtful expression on his face. He didn’t care about these two fools. He just wanted to find Windfoot and be on his way.
Donniel took the blank look for hard and uncaring, as if icy cold water flowed through Mikahl’s veins.
Jerup struggled to aim the crossbow, right at the base of Mikahl’s skull. By the time he managed to pull the trigger, the blood covered boy was turning to lead his packhorse off into the forest. The bolt he’d just fired wasn’t wasted though, it found Donniel’s neck. The bladed tip nicked both his windpipe and his juggler vein. For most of the morning, while Jerup tried desperately to stop the flow of blood from his inner thigh, Donniel’s life leaked from his neck, in a gurgling, pleading hiss.
Windfoot’s trail wasn’t hard to see. The frightened steed had broken branches, trampled undergrowth, and knocked patches of bark from the trees as he’d fled. What made the trail hard to follow was that Mikahl had to search out the signs, with eyes brimming over with hot, salty tears. He was sad and afraid. His whole body shook at the thought of taking Jerup’s life like he had. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that his blade had found the fat vital artery in the man’s leg. There was no doubt that he would soon bleed to death. The fact that he was a thieving bandit, and was about to kill him, did little to ease the empty feeling he felt inside. He had to stop more than once as terrible sobs racked his body. Only after he cleared his mind and took several deep breaths could he think straight.
He was now as wanted as a man could be in the Kingdom of Westland. He reminded himself of this fact, over and over, when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It helped keep his dire situation in perspective but didn’t make him feel any better about what he had done. Taking a man’s life was a monumental thing. Though he had witnessed more than one man’s end, Mikahl had never had to kill anyone. He fought through the powerful emotions that were assailing him, and found a way to continue on. He had no choice. Ironspike was strapped to Windfoot’s saddle, and the horse was running scared. He had to find him and quickly.
Mikahl’s distraught condition kept him from noticing that the sun had crept high overhead. He was getting deeper than he would’ve ever intended into the forest. By the time he realized this, the morning had turned into afternoon. Now he would have to spend the night out here in the woods. Even if he found Windfoot soon, it would be dark before he could work his way back out to the road. He took another look around and found that he wasn’t sure he could even find his way out of the forest again, much less find the trade road.
He cleared his mind of the ill feelings about killing the bandit. The fear of being caught had eased now that he had other things to worry about. King Balton’s sword, as well as his own weapons, were secured to Windfoot’s saddle. He had to catch up to the horse no matter what the cost. Windfoot’s trail was leading generally northward, so Mikahl wasn’t losing ground; but if the horse was allowed to wander throughout the night, there was no telling what sort of forest creature might get a hold of him. Rumors of dread wolves and saber cats had been spread for as long as he could remember, but he didn’t recall ever seeing any such higher predators come out of the Reyhall Forest. There were things out here that would, and could, kill a horse, or a man for that matter. Of that there was no doubt.
“Think, then act,” he told himself again.
Mikahl began trying to mimic the distinct whistle he had often heard the stable man use to call the Royal Herd in from pasture. He felt a little better now. Knowing that none of Prince Glendar’s men would be looking for him way out here in the middle of nowhere went far to that effect. He would find Windfoot and Ironspike and get himself up into the Giant Mountains, even if it killed him. He winced at the thought, and then bit back a laugh as the weight of it sank in.
After he whistled for the fourth time, he thought he heard the horse in the distance, snorting its disapproval at something. He quickened his pace and noticed that the trees were thinning somewhat. The sound came again, and this time he was sure that it was Windfoot.
The forest eventually gave way to a sizable clearing. On the far side of it, across the lush, green, flower filled expanse, was a pond. Not too far from the water, was Windfoot. His reins were tangled in a shrub. The poor horse wanted to drink desperately and was fighting the plant with all he had. It seemed to Mikahl that the bush was winning. As he approached the disgruntled animal, he saw the King’s blade still tied securely to the saddle, and a tidal wave of relief washed over him.
The pack horse whinnied and stomped. It was glad to see its companion again. Windfoot gave a frustrated snort of acknowledgement in return. Soon, Mikahl had them picketed side by side at the ponds edge, where they took to drinking and grazing contentedly.
The glade was full of life. Insects buzzed by busily, and the birds sang, calling out to one another. Mikahl saw a rabbit tearing across the tree line as it fled some invisible predator, and by the variety and quantity of tracks pressed in the mud by the water’s edge, he knew that this was a popular watering hole. It was a beautiful and peaceful place, and Mikahl decided to rest here for awhile.
He washed himself in the pond. He was sure that, save for the battles at Coldfrost, he had never seen so much blood in all his life. He was glad to see it all slide away from his clothes and skin. When he was done, he laid his things out to dry in the warm evening sun, and then he went about getting the dried blood out of his chain mail shirt with an oil cloth. When that task was done, he took his dagger and tore the fancy, embroidered Westland lion from his saddle. It was slow work. The emblem had been carefully sewn with tiny wire threads that had been painted with enamel. The saddle had been a gift from King Balton on Mikahl’s most recent birthday, and defacing it brought a tear to his eye. Since his tunic also bore the kingdom’s lion insignia, he sank it in the pond. He simply tied a fist sized stone up in it, and threw it out into the middle of the water. From now on, he would have to try to blend in with the common folk. Anything that connected him to the King, or the kingdom, would only draw the wrong sort of attention. He stood there a long while, watching the rings that the splashing bundle had made in the pond, grow larger.
Suddenly, he realized that the forest had gone deathly quiet. He looked around, turning a slow circle, but he saw nothing out of the ordinary. He told himself that it was only the sound his tunic had made when it splashed into the water, but he knew that wasn’t true. Just to be safe, he pulled his damp britches back on and took his sword from Windfoot’s saddle. After slipping his chain mail back over his head, he buckled his sword belt around his waist, and began quietly unpacking his longbow. He had just gotten the longbow strung when a loud crash of breaking branches and undergrowth came from out in the forest off to his right. The sound was huge and heavy, like a big tree being torn apart. Whatever had caused it had to be enormous.
Mikahl’s heart was racing. He had heard tales of dragon’s, trolls, and bloodthirsty flying swamp dactyls. He had listened to campfire stories about night stalkers, orcs, and giant snakes, but he had never seen any of them. He didn’t have to remind himself that he was no longer in the Northwood outside of Lakeside Castle. This was the Reyhall Forest, where the monsters of all those campfire stories had originated. What kind of creatures truly dwelt here, he had no idea, and even though the Royal Huntsman had once told him that all those monster stories were just tales told to keep curious young boys from wandering off, Mikahl found that he was more than a little afraid. By the way Windfoot and the pack horse were snorting and stomping around him, he could tell that they were afraid too.
A flash of movement from across the pond caught his eye, but it was fleeting. Another massive crack of timber came from the right. The screeching calls of a thousand, angry, unseated birds came with it. Whatever it was, it was getting closer
. He took the reins of the horses and began leading them away from the pond, to the side of the clearing opposite the approaching noise. He tried not to look back, but couldn’t help himself. The ruckus was becoming a constant, cracking, grinding crush that was accompanied by a strange hissing sound. He saw nothing at first, but then something happened that staggered him.
A single tree, one that was a little taller than the others around it, suddenly shook violently, sending loose leaves and birds scattering. It was back in the forest from the clearing, but only a short distance. Above the thrashing treetop, the halo of displaced birds flew in ragged, angry circles, each and every one of them sounding their displeasure. Mikahl couldn’t even begin to imagine what could cause a tree to jolt and shake in such a sudden way. The tree shook again, and the ground might have shook with it, but this time, a long, slithery roar accompanied the violence.
Mikahl could look no longer. He and the horses were still in the open clearing. He wanted to get into the forest quickly, so he swung himself up into Windfoot’s saddle, and healed his mount into a gallop. The frightened pack horse jumped the other direction, yanking the reins from Mikahl’s hand. He would’ve chased the animal, but the closing sound of crashing trees and a great splash, sent Windfoot tearing off into the woods on his own head. Mikahl was nearly flipped backwards out of the saddle. Branches ripped at his chest and shoulders, and tore at his face as he struggled to right himself. He was almost beheaded by a low hanging limb, but somehow he managed to slow and then turn his terrified horse.
The pond’s surface was churning. Ripples broke like knee high waves in several directions. Not sure he was seeing properly, Mikahl wiped his eyes and looked again. On the far side of the pond, there was a tree trunk freshly stripped of its limbs. It was sliding across the ground towards the water of its own accord. Clumps of fresh dirt still fell from its root cluster. Brush, debris, and pieces of other smaller trees were tangled in the jagged stubs where its own limbs had just been torn away. When it was just a few paces from the water’s edge, the trunk stopped moving completely.
Mikahl patted Windfoot to reassure him, but he wasn’t sure of anything himself. He urged the horse forward a little bit, so that they were still in the trees but could see the majority of the clearing. The pond’s surface had stilled and the birds were returning to their roosts in the nearby trees. The pack horse was trotting aimlessly in an arcing circle. If it weren’t so close to the water, Mikahl thought he might try to chance going after it. Instead, he started whistling and calling for the animal from where he was.
His eyes were eventually drawn to the strangest thing. A tree, or log, was slowly breaking the surface of the pond. It was rising up, end-wise, like a pillar. As with the trunk still lying by the water’s edge, it was stripped of all its limbs. It was rising up so slowly, that it made no ripples whatsoever on the surface of the pond. It was like some giant prayer totem, slowly thrusting itself up to the gods. Two small branches began lifting up from its sides. At the end of each branch, was a cluster of smaller limbs that looked like claws. Mikahl rubbed his eyes and blinked. They were claws. The thing was sticking up out of the water nearly twenty feet now. Before Mikahl could discern any more detail, it dove with viper-like speed out into the clearing and at the unsuspecting pack horse as it came back around toward the water.
The tree trunk lying on the shore jerked forward with the huge creature’s lurch. Mikahl realized that the monster was somehow leashed to it when, like a dog hitting the end of its tether, its jaws snapped shut just short of its target. A great, pink maw slowly opened up, revealing rows of finger long pointed teeth. Then, a flickering, forked tongue shot forth, but the pack horse managed to buck and leap out of its way. The creature wasn’t finished though. It hissed and lashed its tongue out again. This time, its tongue wrapped around the horse’s neck. The packhorse reared, twisted, and tried to get away, but it was no use. The giant lizard-like monster was already pulling it towards its slavering mouth.
Without even stopping to think about what he was doing, Mikahl drew his sword, and spurred Windfoot out into the clearing at a full gallop.
Chapter 6
The wizard, Pael, had been in the service of Westland for twenty-five years, which was exactly how long Prince Glendar had been alive. Pael had arrived on the day of Glendar’s birth, and with his clever magic, he made his way through Lakeside Castle all the way to the Queen’s bedchamber. Once there, he snuffed out her life like an old tallow candle while baby Glendar was still suckling at her breast.
Pael began raising Glendar, playing the caring, motherly role in the boy’s life. When he was schooled, Pael was there. When he was hurt, Pael was there. When he needed comfort, or support, or just a pat on the back, Pael was there. Slowly, and seemingly effortlessly, the wizard molded Glendar to his will.
It wasn’t hard. King Balton was busy with the ever quarreling eastern kingdoms, or off hunting with Lord Gregory and Lord Ellrich. None of the kings and queens of the east seemed to remember the wars, or even the generations of hope and peace that had followed them. It seemed that every kingdom, save for Westland, was growing discontent with its boundaries, or the trade agreements that had been long established. Some rulers were bold enough to check the strength of their neighbors. Defenses were tested, weaknesses were exploited, and alliances were formed. It had been that way all of Glendar’s life, and that was good for Pael. Pael had a grand plan, and he was patient. Some would say that he was as patient as an age.
“But, Master Wizard Pael,” Glendar said coolly, from his recently deceased father’s throne. “The sword is the power of the kingdom.”
“In symbol only,” Pael lied. “It’s no matter, Ironspike will soon be recovered, my Prince.”
“It’s your Highness!” Glendar corrected, a little more forcefully than he had intended to. “I am the King now, Pael.”
The wizard had found him sitting on the throne this morning, about to call court. It was ridiculous. Until now, Pael had kept his anger in check, but no longer.
In a flourish of black robes, the wizard flashed from in front of the throne, to directly behind it. His chalky white bald head pressed against the side of the throne, and his hot chemical breath found Glendar’s startled ear.
“You’ll be the King when I say you can be King, boy!” His voice was full of malice and power. “On the morrow, you’ll bury your father with tears in your eyes. The day after that, I will let you take the crown.”
Pael was already moving around the throne and down the three steps in front of it. He appeared to glide, as if under his floor length robes his feet and legs weren’t moving at all. At the bottom of the steps, he turned and looked back up at the brooding Prince.
“After all that is done Glendar, you may then be my King.”
A dismissive wave of Pael’s hands kept Glendar from catching the dual meaning in his last statement.
“We have more pressing business Glendar.” Pael’s voice grew serious. “Lord Ellrich has men quietly looking for the sword already, and Lord Brach is commissioning the Call to Arms that will soon be posted in all of the Westland cities. Soon, he and his captains will ride out and round up every able bodied man and boy who can fight, after you formally make the command, that is. Lastly, Lord Gregory is preparing to ride to the Summer’s Day Festival with the group of competitors that will be representing Westland this year.”
“Lord Gregory is my father’s man,” Glendar said. “He will rally against our plans. I don’t think he’s to be trusted.”
“You don’t think.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement of fact. “That is your biggest problem, boy.” Pael’s tone was mocking. “I know Lord Gregory is not to be trusted. Why do you think he is about to go to Summer’s Day, when he really wants to be preparing to bury his king? He was ordered, before your father died, to lead the competitors this year. I had your father sign those orders. Lord Gregory will be brawling and grieving from afar, while we are getting all of our things in order. When
he returns…”
Pael paused as an idea came to him. He had to laugh at the absurdity of the coincidence and the old saying that fit the situation.
“To kill two birds with one arrow,” he mumbled the words aloud.
“What?” Glendar asked.
He never understood the wizard’s quiet ramblings. More often than not, he found Pael hard to figure out, even when he talked plainly.
“Nothing!” Pael’s gleeful smile had faded. “If Lord Gregory returns from Summer’s Day, then we shall deal with him.”
A sinister grin crept across Glendar’s face when he realized that Pael had said, “If Lord Gregory returns.”
“You should take a symbolic escort of men and visit your mother’s grave in the garden yard later today.” Pael suggested.
The flickering of the torches burning in the sconces along the Throne Room's wall reflected off of the wizard’s white head, making it look to Glendar like some magical flaming egg.
“Linger there a while, and place flowers upon her stone.”
“But Pael –” Glendar said.
“Do as I say!” Pael snapped.
He knew that Glendar was dying to hold court as the new King. It was just too soon.
“There will be time enough to rule, son.” Pael’s voice became comforting and sensitive. “You will be the King of Westland, and soon the King of all the Eastern lands as well. Mark what I say. You will be the King of Kings, if you will just be patient.”
Pael left the throne room. Glendar was still a spoiled child, and having to pander to him even the slightest little bit set the wizard’s blood boiling. For a moment, he wondered where he had gone wrong, and then he cursed himself for thinking like a doting mother. None of that really mattered now, he told himself. With King Balton gone, the rule of Westland was his, not Glendar’s. He would control the boy with magic, if it came to that, but he doubted it ever would. Glendar was like putty in his hands.
The Sword and the Dragon Page 6