Better to die for a friend, than to rot away in some woodsy cabin all alone anyway. He was done for, but as futile as all his effort seemed to be at the moment, Loudin still thought he could beat the beast.
“You fargin, flying, panther-horse hell-born bitch,” he tried to yell, but no audible sound came. “You’ll not have Mik’s sword!” he finished anyway. With the last bit of his strength, he reached out with his free hand, and grabbed Ironspike’s leather wrapped hilt, and started sliding it out of its scabbard.
Mikahl hadn’t been able to watch. His carelessness had not only cost him King Balton’s sword, but had cost his friend his life. He had failed his father and King. He had let Lord Gregory’s death be in vain. He had wasted the Giant King’s time, and on top of it all, he had killed Loudin.
What a fool he had been to have even entertained the notion that he might be a king of some sort. A King’s bastard born fool is all he was, a squire who had grown too big for his britches, and had carelessly thrown away his honor, and a dear friend’s life, on a whim. He had failed. He wasn’t worthy to be called King. He was just a fool.
Vaegon’s sudden gasp carried a tinge of hope in it. Just enough to bring Mikahl out of his shame, to look up and see what it could possibly be that mocked him so. What he saw, made his own breath catch, and drew him stumbling forward. First one step, then another, and then he was running. Ironspike was flying through the air. Its mirror smooth blade reflected the pastel colors of the morning in sparkling turns as it came spinning towards the ground. It landed blade down, sinking two thirds of its length into the earth from the momentum. Mikahl stopped and stared at it. It wavered there a moment, and then stilled. It looked more like a glimmering, jeweled cross, than a sword. He turned away from it just in time to see Loudin’s body fall crashing into the trees.
The old hunter didn’t even grunt, as his body slammed, and broke, over the heavy limbs. Mikahl prayed that his friend had died with an inner peace. Loudin’s valiant death had saved Mikahl a lifetime of shame. The man could have easily let go long ago, and died somewhat intact, and without so much excruciating pain. Mikahl swore then and there that he would never give up. Neither Loudin’s, nor Lord Gregory’s, sacrifice would be in vain.
The angry roar of the hellcat, as it circled around and dove back towards him, made Mikahl’s blood boil with rage and vengeful anger. As he pulled the sword free of the earth, he welcomed the beast’s approach. Loudin’s death couldn’t be avenged this day, Mikahl told himself. This beast was just a weapon, or a tool sent by another, but he could send a message to whomever it was that wanted Ironspike so badly, a message that was plain and clear.
Ironspike’s blade lit the clearing, like a star, and a symphony of magic filled Mikahl’s ears. The hellcat lowered its hind claws, and at a blinding speed, came swooping down on Mikahl. The surge of static heat that filled Mikahl then was tremendous. A dozen different voices sang into his brain, each one a separate melody that added to the angelic chorus in his mind. Each voice represented a different means of magical attack, and all of this, somehow, became crystal clear to him in that moment. He knew he could access them with a thought, but he knew he didn’t need them for this. He felt the time around him slow, as if the whole world, save for him, was moving through molasses. That effect, and the heat of his rage was more than enough to mark this dark thing.
The hellcat was on him now, and even though the world had slowed, the beast was coming in hard and fast. As Mikahl leapt, and spun in the air, the blue glow of his blade went through all the shades of lavender and purple, until its glow was a deep, bloody red. His head came up under the creature, and he twisted in his spin, so that its dagger-like fore claws missed his shoulders, and its hind legs swept past him. Only then, did he complete the now white-hot blade’s blinding arc.
Vaegon watched in fearful awe as Mikahl pulled the sword free of the ground, and strode forward to meet the streaking approach of the beast. The sword was bright, radiant, and quickly became the cherry color of forge heated steal. Mikahl leapt into the air, his acrobatic movement so swift, that all Vaegon could make out, was a furious blur. It was all happening so quickly, that it made the elf’s head spin.
One second, it looked as if the hellcat would grab onto the boy and carry him off, like it had done Lord Gregory. A fraction of a heartbeat later, Mikahl was behind the beast, his sword sweeping like a white-hot sheer through the creature’s rear thighs as if they were nothing more than butter. As the beast’s hind legs tumbled to the ground, free of its body, the would-be bloody stumps sizzled and smoked. The intense heat of the white-hot blade had cauterized them cleanly. A third piece of the hellcat spun smoking through the air, like a half-embered piece of firewood. Later, Vaegon would find out that it was the spiked tip of the beast’s tail, the very thing that had gouged his eye out of his face and ruined his elven sight.
The creature was ten feet past Mikahl, raising its bulk up on its wings, so that it might clear the trees, and come around again, when it realized what had happened to its hind-legs and tail. The primal shriek of terror and pain that it let out was earsplitting. It was all the legless hellcat could do to stay aloft, as it fled howling over the trees and out of the valley.
Mikahl felt no pride or joy in the rush of emotion that came to him after the beast had gone. Instead, he fell into a crumbling heap of sorrow, and cried out for the loss of his friend.
The tattoo covered Seawardsman, who would be forever immortalized in the histories of both elves and men as, “Loudin of the Reyhall,” was dead.
Chapter 38
Vaegon watched over Mikahl until Hyden finally returned from the ravine. Both the humans were exhausted, so the elf took on the task of cutting Loudin’s body down out of the trees.
It took most of the day, and as horrible as the work was, he knew he was the best one for it. Not only did he know the trees, and have a way with them, as all elves did, but the fact that he wasn’t human, made the death of the hunter a thing he could accept more peaceably than his two companions might.
Once the body was on the ground and intact, Vaegon rolled it up in a woolen blanket, and set an old elven warding around it that would protect it for the night. Mikahl would need to take part in the burial, but only after he had rested. Where elves might let their dead decompose back into the ecosystem, Vaegon understood that the nature of the short-lived humans, and their delicate mentality, made the funerary process a necessity. Not so much for the deceased, but for the friends and relatives that survived him.
While he was working, Vaegon heard the trees whisper of the great evil they were feeling among their roots. The wyvern’s blood was in the soil now, and they feared what it would do to them. They could sense that the unnatural beast’s presence in the world was just the beginning of something far worse.
Vaegon listened, and a tiny speck of fear took root in his heart as well. It was no mountain-born wyvern that he had killed this day. That thing was evil and born in a place unnatural; a place from which things shouldn’t be allowed to escape. He understood then that some great dark force had let it and the hellcat loose, and just as the trees feared, far worse was more than likely on its way.
The next day, when the three companions came to the clearing to bury Loudin, they found the strangest of things. In the middle of the clearing, a perfect circle of fragrant blue flowers had grown overnight. The center of the circle was exactly where Ironspike had pierced the earth after Loudin had thrown it, and the whole thing was easily twenty paces across. Mikahl chose that spot to bury his friend. The sign of the good cross that the sword had made, as it wavered there, was fresh in his mind. He felt it would be an ill omen to bury the hunter anywhere else.
The coincidence that he had met Loudin in a clearing, not unlike this one, wasn’t lost on Mikahl either. Where that glade had had a pond, full of sparkling water, this one had an island of magical flowers. It was thoughts like this that kept Mikahl from breaking down as they piled up a great mound of stones over
the grave.
The chore was done, slowly and carefully, so as to avoid damaging the flowers around the burial mound. When it was done, even the trees blessed the old hunter’s passing. The magic from the sword, that had leeched into the soil and caused the sapphire blooms to suddenly erupt, had also spread through the earth, and eaten away the corrosive power of the wyvern’s black blood. Vaegon heard the trees whisper a promise to watch over the sacred place, and told his companions as much as they returned to the camp just after dark.
That night, they started using a watch system. Vaegon would be first, then Hyden, then Mikahl. Mikahl insisted on being last. He didn’t explain why and no one asked.
The next morning, as dawn lit the valley shadows, they learned the reason. The young Westlander was going through a furious series of workouts with his softly glowing blade. Hyden and Vaegon both woke, and watched, with respectful awe, as Mikahl went through grueling combinations of slashes, thrusts, and turns, each more strenuous, and graceful than the last. When he was done, he bowed deeply to the four corners of the compass, and even managed a thin smile at the others, as he toweled himself off with one of Loudin’s old shirts.
Through the darkened part of his watch, Mikahl had tried to adapt the sheath from Duke Fairchild’s sword to fit Ironspike’s blade. He managed to work its narrower width so that he could slide his blade down to the bottom, but it was still a hand’s width too short. When the belt was around his waist, a small part of Ironspike’s blade rose glowing up out of it, and the pommel rubbed at his ribs uncomfortably, but it would have to do for now. Ironspike’s scabbard was gone.
After breaking their fast on some dried meat and stream water, Vaegon grew tired of watching Mikahl fiddle with the ill-fitting scabbard, and excused himself from the camp. With a troubled look on his face, he trekked out into the forest, and disappeared.
Hyden was lying down. He appeared to be asleep, but he wasn’t. Talon was out exploring the valley, and through the hawkling’s senses, Hyden was soaring with him.
The old wolf mother had made it out of the ravine with her two pups in tow. She had managed to kill a slow hopper for them to eat. Hyden observed them from the branches of a nearby tree, as they picked the bones clean, and then crunched them between the teeth.
Satisfied that they would be all right, he and Talon circled high, and soared over the whole valley. Movement, not too far from the camp, caught the bird’s keen eyes, and sent mild alarms jangling up Hyden’s spine. He was glad he didn’t react rashly and get Mikahl all excited, because it was only the elf. Vaegon was walking around, mumbling to the trees in a sort of half-dazed state. Not wanting to intrude on his friend’s privacy, Hyden and Talon flew on.
He saw the wyvern’s carcass in the clearing. It looked like a scab, on an otherwise healthy patch of forest. Not even the carrion would touch it. The perfect circle of blue flowers made the place seem unnatural though. Talon alighted briefly on top of the stone mound that was Loudin’s grave. Hyden wondered what sort of place the hunter’s spirit was in now. He didn’t dwell on the question, because it saddened him, and the curious thought was soon forgotten as Talon shot back into the sky.
The hawkling found a column of warm air rising up from where the sun was heating a patch of dark stone, and rode the currents into the heavenly heights. From there, Hyden could see several hundred valleys in every direction he looked. The only real visible change in the terrain, was to the far north: the white-capped mountains were taller, and seemed far less hospitable, while to the south, the sharp peaks, and jagged precipices gradually rounded and smoothed, giving way to warmer, greener foothills.
Talon soared around into a dive, and with his wings tucked back, came streaking down toward the valley where they were camped. It was exhilarating. Even laying on his blanket at the camp, with his eyes clenched shut, Hyden felt the rush of it.
The joy was suddenly eclipsed by another warning sensation rippling up his back. More movement, the flashes of something white and fleeting, darting through the trees at the northernmost ridge above their valley, had caught Talon’s eye. He aimed his diving descent in that direction to investigate. There was another, and then there was a third snow white creature, scrambling through the woods.
They were four-legged creatures, running friskily about the trees without a concern in the world. At the ridge, the density of the canopy thinned, and three of the beasts came leaping out into the open. They were wolves, big wolves, and white as snow. Two more darted out, and the pack pranced in the clearing anxiously, before scattering off in the same general direction on five different trails. One would chase another for a bit, then break off, and playfully take up pursuit of another of its pack mates. They were coming down into the valley towards the camp, and Hyden counted nine of them in all.
These weren’t the gray dusky wolves that lived in the valleys and foothills of the lower mountains, like the one he had healed in the ravine. These were the Great Wolves from the high peaks around the giants’ hidden city of Afdeon. These were the wolves that Berda had told him about on more than one occasion, and recalling that, he knew suddenly why they were here.
Hyden grew excited, and sent Talon up over the ridge from where the wolves had come. Sure enough, he found them there – three giants striding purposefully up the valley towards the ridge.
Borg and a young giantess walked side by side, and behind them, came another huge male, whose bearing and stride were so regal, that Hyden could only assume that it was King Aldar himself.
Hyden jumped to his feet, grinning with anticipation. The sorrow of Loudin’s death was lost for the moment in his excitement. In all his days, he never thought he would ever get to meet the Giant King that Berda had spoken of so often. She had held such obvious regard for this being, that Hyden had always envisioned him as some sort of god on earth. And now, he was going to meet him.
At once, he sent Talon to go land on Borg’s shoulder so that he would know that they had been seen and were expected. Then, he turned to Mikahl’s worried expression, and explained why he had suddenly grown so excited.
“We’ll have to meet them somewhere more open,” Hyden said, as he started to gather up things around the camp. “This is too low. There’s a place by the stream pools where the branches are higher, and the stream bed is open to the sky. I think that will be best.”
“What are you so nervous about?” Mikahl asked. “It’s my future, and my destiny that King Aldar is about to unveil, not yours.”
“Aye,” Hyden laughed lightly. “It’s true, but I’ve heard about this king all of my days. He crossed the desert and treated with the Krags that live on the other side. He’s killed vipers that Berda said were at least a hundred paces long; and his grandfather and a few other giants once killed a dragon. Its skull sits in the council chamber of my Elders. To the kingdom folk, we Clansman seem to live as free men, and we are, but we live in the Giant Mountains, under the protection of King Aldar.”
He paused to take a reverent breath. The importance of this meeting to him, radiated from his expression like the rays of the sun.
“It is no small honor for any Clansman to meet the King of the Giants.”
“Aye,” Mikahl nodded his understanding. “It’s no small honor to meet any king.” He was thinking of King Balton when he said the words, but he found that they awakened something inside of him.
According to Lord Gregory, he was a King, and he decided he would try to act like one when he met King Aldar. He began double-timing his work then. He hoped to be able to wash himself, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought there might be a fairly decent set of clothes stashed in the bottom of Windfoot’s saddle.
The wolves came to the pool in the early evening. The sun had sunk below the mountain tops, leaving the valley bottom in a dusky light, but with a bright blue sky overhead.
The creatures were mildly hesitant as they inched to the water’s edge, and lapped from it. After few moments of pacing back and forth, one of them came splashing acr
oss the narrow end of the pool. Once on the companions’ side of it, the animal fiercely shook itself dry. His pack mates quickly followed. They didn’t seem to fear Vaegon’s fire, and it took only a few minutes for the bravest one to inch up to Hyden and sit down.
Hyden, trembling with a mixture of more excitement than fear, let the wolf sniff at him. The wolf’s head was twice as wide as a man’s, and its fangs were the size of a child’s fingers. He was sitting on a big knee-high rock, and still the wolf’s head was higher than his own. When he tentatively reached up to scratch the pack leader behind its ears, he found it was like putting his arm around an old friend’s shoulders. The huge wolf leaned in, nuzzled him, and gave his cheek a lick with its damp, sandy tongue. Its fur was thick enough to lose a hand in.
After a few minutes of ear scratching, the wolf eased away, then stretched out its fore paws and lay out on its belly. The others of the pack weren’t as ready to make friends yet. They paced anxiously about, or laid down a safe distance from the campfire.
All of the wolves, save for the pack-leader, jumped to their feet when a not-so-distant whistle erupted from the woods. The pack-leader only raised his huge head, and tilted it curiously. About half of the pack re-crossed the stream and darted into the forest after the sound. The others grew excited; their pacing became restless in anticipation of their chosen master’s coming.
Borg was the first out of the trees. Mikahl found that he had to look up from where his eyes had expected a head to appear. The Southern Guardian was more than twice the size of a man, and the sight of him standing erect, instead of hunched down in a cavern was startling.
He wore the same dark elk-hide shirt and patch-worked britches as he had before. His similarly patch-worked vest coat was open, displaying the big Dread Wolf skull belt buckle he wore like a trophy. His long, silver-black hair and beard wavered in the breeze. He leaned his weight on his tree trunk staff and stepped across the stream in a single stride to join them. As he approached, his dark eyes moved under a heavy brow, from face to face, nodding respectfully to each of them. He could tell instantly that something was amiss.
The Sword and the Dragon Page 42