The Sword and the Dragon (The Wardstone Trilogy Book One)

by M. R. Mathias

  Mikahl’s head was still spinning. He couldn’t say where, or even who, he was at the moment. He didn’t get up, but did turn to look back behind him to see what the person was yelling about. He saw the wild looking man thrust up his spear, then jump out of the way of a huge, bloody maw. All of this was transpiring only a few paces behind him. He couldn’t help but wonder how long he had been out of it. It took a few seconds for it all to register in his brain. When it did, he stumbled to his feet, and a rush of fear and adrenaline shot through his battered body.

  “Get your fargin sword, man!” The man’s voice was savage. “Ye better hur-” He had to jump out of the way of all those razor sharp teeth, as the beast’s mouth snapped shut just inches from his face. “Come on then, ye slithery bastard!” He yelled at the creature when he recovered.

  The King’s sword was the only thing Mikahl cared about at that moment, and he turned a slow circle looking for Windfoot. When he saw the front half of a horse laying a half dozen yards away, panic shot through him. It was the pack horse he realized, and even though the saddle pack that contained most of his supplies looked to be intact, he dismissed the gory site. Only Windfoot and Ironspike were important. On the far side of the clearing, just inside the tree line, he spotted the horse. The animal was limping badly, but the sword was still plainly visible, strapped to his back in its protective sheath. Another shock of panic came rising up through the haze of Mikahl’s brain. He would be forced to put his beloved horse down now. After the harrowing jump over the pack horse, one of Windfoot’s legs was surely broken. Why else would he be limping? Now, he would have to walk all the way to the Giant Mountains.

  “It’s here man! Here!” The man beside him yelled hysterically. Mikahl was brought back to the moment by the beast’s hissing roar. He followed the man’s finger. He was pointing down at Mikahl’s sword. It was lying in the grass just a few feet away.

  The creature roared out again. The horrible blast sent bloody, foamy spray out over them in a warm, breathy spew. The whole idea of the situation filled Mikahl with rage. He strode purposely over to his old sword, picked it up, and turned toward the blasted creature that had killed his horse. “Think, then act.” He heard King Balton’s voice speak the words in his mind, but he ignored them.

  The giant lizard’s skin looked like rough tree bark, but it appeared to be much harder. The blood drenched man had managed to gouge several deep wounds on the inside of, and around the thing’s mouth, but his attempts to stab it anywhere else had resulted in mere scratches. Only its neck and breast area looked to be vulnerable to Mikahl. He still didn’t understand why the bloody beast was leashed to the fallen tree. He was glad it was though. It couldn’t leave the water to get all the way at them. Then there was the man. He was bald, and huge, almost as big as Lord Gregory. He was covered in blood, but didn’t seem to be hurt too badly. The giant lizard beast was dripping and spraying blood everywhere. Mikahl decided that was where the blood on the man had come from. He saw that the lizard’s tongue wasn’t a problem anymore. Only the snapping mouth, which twisted and shook, then lunged, and withdrew, had to be avoided.

  “Where are you at man? Are ye daft?” the frustrated man managed to ask, just before the creature snapped down at him again. As the beast withdrew, he stepped forward, and stabbed his spear into the pale, scaly flesh under the creature’s jaw.

  “Drive it deep, and hold it up!” Mikahl suddenly yelled, as he charged up under the beast’s neck. He’d had enough of this. His half conscious brain was clouded in a scarlet mist. He aimed for what might be the throat, and yelled. He used all the strength he had to drive his blade home. The creature brought its head down hard, trying to crush Mikahl under its weight. Mikahl let go of the sword, just in time, and leapt away, leaving his blade buried halfway into the lizard’s neck. The creature’s attempt to smash him, only forced the sword in deeper. A scrabbling claw managed to hook into Mikahl’s chain mail armor, but his momentum somehow won him free.

  “Yahhhh!” The blood covered man yelled in acknowledgment of Mikahl’s insane attack. A second later, he was slung away from the grip he had on his spear, when the creature raised up from the ground, and shook its head like a terrier shaking a rat. The spear went flying from the monster lizard’s mouth, and the man followed it with his eyes, as he urged Mikahl away from the beast.

  The creature thrashed and hissed, and thrashed some more, throwing bloody spume and pond water everywhere. Its death throes didn’t last long though, and the thing slowly collapsed into a twitching heap. Only its head and front legs were visible at first, then gradually, the rest of its long reptilian body floated to the surface of the pond, jerking occasionally in protest of death.

  “Fargin big bastard, eh?” The man was bent over with his hands on his knees, laughing between his gasping breaths.

  Mikahl fell to the ground and glared at him. He wanted nothing more than to go to Windfoot, but he was too sore to move.

  “Why didn’t it advance on us?” he asked.

  “See that busted up tree over yond?” The man pointed across the pond to the stripped trunk Mikahl had seen sliding across the ground earlier.

  “A little while ago that was a healthy tree, still in the ground,” the man explained.

  He squatted down a little closer to where Mikahl was laying, and then he continued.

  “That fargin Bark Skinner pulled it up, roots and all, and drug it through the forest.” He laughed at the absurdity of it. “I was sure my chain would snap. I guess it’s true; Wildermont steel is the best in the world. That chain proved up to the test today, even when yon tree wedged itself stuck over there.”

  “Why in all the hells was that thing chained to a tree?” asked Mikahl..

  The man looked at Mikahl closely then. His brows narrowed. He reached up with his hand and used his thumb to wipe away some of the blood under Mikahl’s busted nose.

  “Bah!” The man stood with the wince. “It got caught in my trap, boy.” The man belted out a hearty chuckle. “I thought ye had hair on your lip, but it was not but dirt and blood. You’re just a pup.”

  Mikahl felt himself flush. The sensation was partly from embarrassment, but also from indignant anger. Either way, the rush of blood to his face reminded him of how swollen and battered it was.

  “I might just be a Squire – a boy, but I just saved your hide.”

  The man looked at him again, taking him in from head to toe. After a moment, a white grin split the man’s dirty, bloody face.

  “Aye. Exactly so,” The man laughed. “And a fat sack o’ gold that hide will bring us if we can skin her without a tear.”

  Mikahl started to his feet, but a spinning sensation stopped him. He wasn’t sure what the man had meant, but he didn’t voice his ignorance. The man offered a hand to Mikahl. He took it and was pulled to his feet with a heave. Mikahl couldn’t help but notice that the man was incredibly strong.

  “They call me Loudin.”

  “Call me Mik,” Mikahl lied. “It’s short for Mikken.”

  “Well met Mikken.” Loudin put one hand on Mikahl’s shoulder and extended the other out towards the dead bark skinned lizard.

  “Yer due a share of the take from the skin, lad, but you have to help me skin’r and sell’r. We’ll need yer good horse to help tote it as well.”

  Mikahl laughed. He just now caught the unintentional joke he had made when he told the man that he’d saved his hide.

  “My horse appears to be lame sir…uh…Loudin. And as much as I thank you for the offer, I must continue north into the mountains. My business there is urgent.”

  “Well, firstly, my friend, yer horse is limping. But its leg ain’t broke. It just lost a shoe. Probably a bit of nail left in the hoof gathering mud and grass as he limps around. Secondly, if yer going into the mountains, even this time of the year, you’ll freeze your castle raised giblets off at night dressed in those cloths. Thirdly, Summer’s Day is at the foot of the mountains, and that’s where we will most likely h
ave to sell our prize. That’s only if we can get the big bastard skinned, and get it there before the festival is over, and all the traders go home.”

  The wave of relief that washed over Mikahl when he heard that Windfoot was alright, was so overpowering that he didn’t even wince at Loudin’s jab. Mikahl had been having a futilely hard time trying to hide. He wasn’t sure what he had said that had given him away, but the big trapper had apparently seen right through him. “Castle raised,” he had said. Was Mikahl that transparent? He was starting to feel like he was swimming in water that was full of venomous serpents, and far too deep to stand in. He wasn’t even sure he could find his way out of these woods. He’d never thought that he might need warmer clothes. He wasn’t sure he could trust this man. His accent was like those of the sailors from the Kingdom of Seaward that often docked in Portsmouth. They were notoriously questionable folk who tended to spend a lot of time whoring and gambling. Not as bad as the Dakaneese Pirates, but bad enough. A long look at the dead barkskin lizard helped make his mind up. There was no telling what other sort of dangerous creatures roamed this forest. Besides, if he got to the Summer’s Day Festival, he wouldn’t be lost anymore. From the great, black spire, he could go due north and within a day or two he’d be in the Giant Mountains.

  “Will my share be enough to outfit me for the mountains?” He asked the trapper.

  “Aye! Twice as much, and then some, lad,” Loudin answered.

  It was true. The skin of this huge lizard would bring in a small fortune. Loudin was a fairly honest man, and though he had cheated many a fool at dice, and the fortune wheel, and at the card table too, he saw no need to try to cheat this fool boy. The boy’s ignorance would allow Loudin to keep nearly all of the gold. He could outfit the boy well, and fill his pouch full of silver coins, then send him off to get eaten, or to freeze to death in the mountains. The bulk of the profit he would keep for himself. They had to hurry though, or the traders would be gone. He wasn’t sure, because he had lost count of the days while tracking the great lizard through the forest, but he felt certain that Summer’s Day was upon them. Tomorrow, or the next day, might be the first day of summer. He thought about asking the boy what day it was, but didn’t want the lad thinking he was daft. It didn’t matter. He was sure that if they got to work quickly they could get the lizard skinned, and get the hide to the festival, before all the traders were gone.

  Loudin was right about Windfoot’s hoof. Mikahl couldn’t figure how the old hunter had known it, but he had. It only took Mikahl a few moments to clean way the clod that was caked to the nail and work the nail itself free. Windfoot would have to do without the fourth shoe. Out there in the forest, where the ground was relatively soft and free of sharp rocks, the well trained horse could manage. Mikahl would have him re-shod when they got to the festival.

  It was near dark by the time that they had the huge lizard dragged out of the pond into the clearing and rolled onto its back. Even Loudin marveled at how big it was. He said it was the biggest Bark Skinned Lizard he had ever seen. He paced its length off, and found that it was six paces longer than the biggest he had ever heard of, thirty two paces, from nose to tail. Its mouth was big enough to swallow a man whole, and was as pink as a maiden’s ribbon inside. Its four legs stuck up from its stiffening body, like grotesque tree stumps, with wickedly sharp stunted limbs.

  Mikahl learned that Loudin had a horse and a camp not too far away. Together, the horses had done most of the hard labor of moving the big beast, while they had used Loudin’s ropes to guide and roll the lizard over. It was no easy task, even with the horses, but they manage to get the creature ready to skin.

  Mikahl did his share of the work without complaint, even though he was horribly sore and bruised from his crash landing. His nose was broken and swollen, and black circles were forming under his eyes. He had seen his reflection in the pond water when he had washed away the blood. No one at Summer’s Day would recognize him, unless they were looking for a raccoon.

  Mikahl let his mind wander while they worked. He had never been to the Summer’s Day Festival and found himself more than a little excited. King Balton sent a delegation of competitors each year to represent Westland, and Mikahl had listened raptly to the tales they carried back with them. Lord Gregory had once won a fistfight called, “The Brawl,” and had his name engraved into the great spire for the victory. Lord Ellrich had also once won a prize for eating more sausage coils than his competitors, but that feat didn’t warrant getting your name etched into the spire for all to see. Elves were said to come out of their hiding places in the Evermore Forest to win the archery tournament every year, and wizards turned stones into snake-birds, or fruit trees, for coins. Wild men breathed fire, and hawkers sold everything you could imagine. He couldn’t wait to see such things. The prospect of it made it easier to labor through his pains in hopes that they wouldn’t arrive too late to witness them.

  They stopped working at sunset. Loudin said there was no use trying to skin the beast by torchlight. Mikahl wanted to retrieve his sword from the creature’s gullet, but decided that it could wait till the morrow. He would also have to find his longbow. He’d thrown it down somewhere in the clearing when he and Windfoot had made their hasty retreat into the trees. He would have searched for it earlier, but he was too embarrassed to admit losing it to the hunter.

  They cleaned up in the pond again before they made their way to Loudin’s camp. Loudin said that it would be better to stay away from the clearing for the night. There was no telling what sort of things would come sniffing around the carcass.

  “Won’t something try to eat the meat and ruin the hide?” Mikahl asked. Loudin held a branch aside, until Mikahl took it, so that it wouldn’t whip him in the face.

  Loudin answered, “The tongue, or what’s left of it, and the eyes maybe; the hide’s too thick.”

  While they were washing, Mikahl noticed that Loudin was slick bald, and had large, black tattoos on his scalp and back. This was confirmation of his Seaward heritage. The contrast between skin and ink on the hunter’s back, made it easy for Mikahl to follow him in the darkness.

  “The big scavengers –” Loudin was saying, “– the ones that could possibly get a tooth or claw through that thick bark hide, won’t bother.”

  Loudin ducked a low hanging branch and turned sharply to make sure that Mikahl didn’t bash into it. He waited until he saw Mikahl duck, and then he continued.

  “The big’uns will run off the little’ns feeding on the tongue and eyes. They’ll keep the little’ns away till they get their fill. And they won’t bother with the stuff that’s hard to get to. Ah! Here we are. Hold tight Mik, I’ll get the fire going so we can see.”

  Loudin did just what he said he would do: he built up a huge fire. Mikahl was glad for it. He got so close to the fire that his battered flesh was nearly singed by the heat, and he knew he would feel better for it later. After Loudin sat down, Mikahl studied him. He gave the hunter a big piece of cheese and some bread that he’d retrieved from his pack saddle. Loudin was roasting some of the lizard’s tongue meat on a stick, but he took the offer with a nod of thanks.

  Mikahl could see that the hunter was older than he had first guessed. The lines that formed at the corners of the man’s eyes when he smiled were deep and worn in. His body was well muscled and darkened from the sun. Mikahl figured that he was far more than just a trapper. The tattoos were the strangest thing about him though. He was tiger striped horizontally, from his belt line, up his back, and onto his head. He had big stripes that wrapped around his arms and the tender flesh at his sides. The highest stripe wrapped around his neck, just under his ears, and came to crisp points along either side of his jaw. From between his eyebrows, a point gradually widened into a two finger wide stripe that ran back over his forehead and melded with the rest. The effect was such, that if you looked at him from the front, you could only see the hint of the mohawk tattoo on his head. But from behind, he looked quite animalistic.

/>   Mikahl wanted to ask him about the tattoos but was afraid to offend the man. He knew from his studies, that warriors from Seaward, and some sailors from the Isle of Salazar marked themselves in such ways, but he wasn’t sure why.

  Loudin gave him a piece of the tongue meat when it was done and put his own piece on the bread Mikahl had given him.

  “That there piece of meat would fetch a whole piece of gold in some places I’ve been.” Loudin took a bite, and closed his eyes, savoring the rich flavor.

  “My people say it’s bad fortune to eat meat from a scaled beast, but –” He took another bite.

  The expression on his face left no need for him to finish the statement. The look was that of pure bliss.

  Mikahl tried to sniff the meat before he took a bite, but his nose was clogged with blood. He finally braved a taste, and was rewarded with a thick, powerful flavor that was quite delicious.

  Loudin grinned. After he swallowed his bite, he continued speaking.

  “The giant folk will give a small fortune for such a delicacy. These bark-skinned lizards don’t live up in the frigid mountains. I know a giant that would have filled my fist full of gold for the piece of meat you’re eating now. I mean filled it!”

  “Giant? Did you just say that you know some of the giants?” Mikahl asked the question, just to be sure he had heard correctly. He had.

  Chapter 9

  The black obsidian spike of Summer’s Day Spire thrust up out of the Northern Leif Greyn Valley and pointed toward the heavens. It was hundreds of feet tall, yet only twenty eight paces wide at each of the three faces formed by its base. What purpose it was supposed to serve, and who had built it, no one, be they human, giant, or elf could say. It had been standing before history was written. The giants called it the Monolith. The elves simply called it the Spire. Tens of thousands of years’ worth of stories and lore, from all the races of the realm, spoke of it. Religions had risen and fallen over it, but no one had even come close to guessing what it was about. Even the oldest of the elves, who had heard the tales of their forbearers firsthand, had no clue as to why the thing existed, or who might have put it there.