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

by M. R. Mathias

  He’d seen the sword a thousand times, while it was hanging menacingly from King Balton’s hip. He even got to handle it, but only when he was cleaning and polishing it. The blade had served as a warning to those who thought to cross the old man, and it gave comfort to those who looked to him for protection. Mikahl remembered cleaning the battle gore from its gleaming surfaces a few years ago, after one of the battles up in Coldfrost. More recently, he had wiped away a Dakaneese sell-sword’s blood from its razor edge after he had been beheaded for robbing and killing a Portsmouth merchant. Mikahl had polished the sword’s beautifully etched blade and its jeweled hilt a score of times, and could remember every single one of them. All of those memories caused him to think about King Balton. He started to take the sword out of its protective cover but stopped as a flood of warm, salty tears poured over his swollen cheeks.

  He missed his king. The old man had been wise and kind. Except for the time Mikahl had gone exploring off into the Northwood without telling anyone where he was going, he had never so much as cuffed him on the head. Most young squires got whacked regularly, when they messed up, or caused problems. When Mikahl did wrong, he usually got a fatherly lecture.

  Mikahl missed the castle too. The room he shared with the King’s two Royal Pages was warm and close to the kitchens. He had ruled the roost there. He tried to wipe away his tears, but found that his face hurt too badly to touch. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway, already more tears were falling. It was as if a dam had broken inside him. The idea that King Balton was dead, and that he could never go back home again wouldn’t leave his mind. It was a long time before sleep found him again, but thankfully it did.

  He woke, groggily, to the smell of cooking meat, and was still clutching the covered King’s sword as if it were Lissy, the cook’s skinny niece, who often snuck into his chamber back in the castle when the nights were cold. The idea that he had taken the sword out of its place on his saddle, and that it was semi-exposed, brought him out of his slumber quickly. He didn’t begin to relax until the bundle was secured back in its place.

  The old hunter watched him curiously out of the corner of his eye but said nothing about the peculiar behavior.

  The breakfast meat was tough and stringy, but filling. Mikahl didn’t ask what it was, because the animal’s innards, and its pelts, still sat at the edge of the camp, and he didn’t want Loudin to know that he didn’t recognize the remains. He didn’t want to be thought of as a fool. He searched his memory for any sort of a creature that had fur such a bright shade of red, but couldn’t think of any. This lack of knowledge only served to remind him of how far out of his element he was.

  He needed Loudin, he realized then. The hunter said he knew a giant, and Mikahl wanted desperately to ask him about that, but he hadn’t yet. He decided that he would offer Loudin his share of the proceeds from the lizard’s skin, and the bag full of golden coins he had hidden deep in Windfoot’s saddle bags, as payment to guide him into the mountains. He hoped that after he finished his current business at Summer’s Day, that Loudin would be employable. He was finding that he didn’t relish the idea of venturing into those infamously treacherous mountains alone.

  “You’re looking better this morn,” Loudin said, as he stood, and began unlacing his britches.

  The old hunter pulled out his manhood, and started pissing out the campfire. Mikahl took the action as a sign that he needed to get moving. He had no desire to watch the hunter relieve himself, so he put his back to the man, wolfed down his breakfast, and rolled up his blankets. A few minutes later, they were underway. Both had their left legs hung next to their saddles, out and over the roll of lizard’s hide.

  It was a beautiful day. Birds fluttered about from tree to tree, and insects buzzed around, intent on their business. The occasional squirrel or rabbit darted away from the sounds of their passage. The forest’s shade was pierced here and there with uniformly angled shafts of sunlight. Flecks of dust and pollen glided through them sparkling golden in the air. Just before they stopped for an afternoon meal, a brown and yellow striped limb lion growled down at them from above. Loudin yelled at it sharply, and it went bounding away from tree branch to tree branch, like some gigantic squirrel. A slow shower of green leaves floated down to the forest floor behind it. Mikahl was amazed. The cat had been about twice the size of any of the mousers he’d seen roaming the castle back home, but its growl had been as deep and intimidating as that of one of the wild lions that roamed the Westland Plains. Loudin cursed the fact that he hadn’t had his bow ready. Apparently, the tree cats tasted extremely good, for the hunter talked about the missed opportunity throughout their whole stop.

  They ate the last of Mikahl’s bread and some more of his cheese. Loudin shared some salted dried beef he had stashed, made a joke about how much cheese Mikahl had eaten, and how it had already plugged his bowels completely. Determined to have fresh meat for supper, Loudin strung his bow and indicated that Mikahl should do the same. After that, they mounted up and got back under way.

  Mikahl got a glimpse of what they had eaten for breakfast when Loudin’s arrow narrowly missed a fox-like creature that had bright red fur splotched with gray. Mikahl had to laugh as it bounded away through the forest to Loudin’s curses.

  “What’s so funny, boy?” the old man asked.

  “It’s a wonder that you could hit wood in all this forest, as bad as you aim.”

  “So, you was the jester back in that castle you came from,” Loudin snorted at his own wit. “No wonder they sent you away. You’re far from funny.”

  Being called a fool, sent a rush of prideful anger through Mikahl, and he blurted his words without thinking.

  “I’m the squire to the King himself,” he boasted. “And I could best you with the bow any time you –” He let his voice trail off as he realized what his stupid slip of the tongue had just cost him.

  “Aye! The Kings own squire!” Loudin laughed. “And I suppose that bundle you’re so protective of is old Ironspike herself.”

  Mikahl’s heart stopped in his chest. How could he know? Had he gone through Windfoot’s pack while he was asleep? Had he –?

  “Maybe on a practice field, loosing at targets, you could best me boy,” Loudin continued. “But when what you’re trying to kill is looking to make you its next meal, then by the Gods, lad, it would be dining on the King’s own squire.”

  It took a moment for Mikahl to understand that Loudin had been mocking him. He wanted to defend himself, but he thought better of it. The comment about him carrying Ironspike, he realized now, had only been spoken in jest. Loudin knew nothing about his burden. It was a welcome relief, but Mikahl wished that he hadn’t come off like some spoiled castle born brat in the verbal exchange.

  “It is true that I am out of place,” Mikahl said, after a time.

  He felt the strong urge to try and gain back any respect he might’ve lost with his childish boasting. “I just want –”

  “You’ve got the balls of a man and the brains of a boy!” Loudin laughed. “It’s a common enough ailment for young men. Be we castle raised, or ship born, we all go through it, lad.”

  They rode on in silence for a long while. Once, Loudin stopped his horse, and raised his hand, with a hiss of warning. They sat there, as still as stone, and Mikahl tried desperately to hear what it was that had the hunter cupping his hands to his ear.

  The pace quickened after that. Mikahl wanted to ask why, but the look of intense concern that formed on the hunter’s face since they stopped, kept him from it. He dared not make an unnecessary sound. It was growing dark around them when Mikahl finally mustered the courage to speak.

  “Are we going to stop soon?” he asked, as quietly as he could manage.

  “Aye,” Loudin whispered back to him with that same alarming intensity. “We ain’t stoppin’ for long though.”

  When they did stop, Mikahl learned that they weren’t going to make a camp. Loudin quickly put away his bow, and after rummaging through
his saddle bags, produced three iron-jawed snap traps. It took him only a few moments to set them in a row across the path they had been traveling. Then, after kicking brush and leaves over them, he went to his packs again. It was so dark, that Mikahl couldn’t tell what the man was doing.

  “Cut me a good sized chunk of your cheese, Mik,” the hunter whispered.

  When Mikahl handed Loudin what he had asked for, he saw that the man was holding a silver coin, or maybe a button up to see how it reflected in the forest night. Loudin took the object, the cheese, and something else that Mikahl couldn’t see back to where he had set the traps. Curiosity was gnawing at Mikahl’s guts like a starving dog. The sensation only worsened when Loudin didn’t mount back up, but instead led them cautiously away from the area on foot.

  It seemed an eternity before the hunter finally broke the silence.

  “Stay on your horse, Mik,” he whispered.

  Moonlight reflected off of Loudin’s shiny, tattoo covered head and caught the whites of his eyes. Mikahl shivered at the sight. The old hunter could have been one of the forest’s creatures, or a monster out of some bard’s tale. At that moment, he looked anything but human.

  “Something’s following us,” He whispered to Mikahl. “We’re not stopping again this night.”

  “What is it?” Mikahl asked the dark empty place where the hunter had just been.

  “I’m hoping to know soon enough.”

  Loudin’s voice came from somewhere ahead of Mikahl now. Mikahl guessed correctly that Loudin was getting back on his horse.

  Windfoot had been following Loudin’s roan long enough now that he kept himself the proper distance behind, without Mikahl having to worry about it. This made riding through the darkened forest an easy task, but it left Mikahl’s mind idle enough to wonder over the hundreds of possibilities of who, or what, could be behind them.

  The insects’ nocturnal song was a constant, but each time a bird fluttered from the trees, or leaves rustled in the distance, Mikahl’s heart boomed through his chest. He told himself over and over again to relax, but no sooner would he calm himself, than another sound would erupt out of the darkness to startle him. Just when he finally became used to the strange symphony of the night, everything hushed to a dead silence around him.

  A horribly chilling scream pierced the air like an ax cleaving flesh. Whatever it was, it almost sounded human.

  Windfoot balked then tried to rear up, causing Loudin’s roan to try to bolt. Luckily, the roll of lizard skin was well secured to each of the saddles. Mikahl and Loudin were taken on a short, wild ride through the darkness, but they weren’t separated from the horses.

  When Loudin finally got them stopped, and had calmed the animals somewhat, he turned and glared at Mikahl. Even in the darkness, Mikahl could tell that the hunter’s expression was anything but kind.

  “I don’t know who you really are Mik, or what it is that you’ve done.” The words were growled through clenched teeth. “But I can tell you that those men who are following us aren’t after me!”

  Chapter 14

  Duke Fairchild of the northern Westland town of Greenside wasn’t a child, nor was he fair. He was a tall and lanky hunter, with raptor eyes, and a hooked nose, and he had ranged the Reyhall Forest since he was in swaddling clothes. He was one of Lord Brach’s favorite men, and he was the head of one of the wealthiest, and the most well connected families in all of Westland.

  The Duke had deservedly earned the reputation, not of a stalwart nobleman, but of a ruthless interrogator, and a fearless and formidable battlefield warrior. His exploits during the conflict against the half-breed beasts at Coldfrost had earned him the nickname “The Butcher.” In the frigid north, he had served both Lord Brach, and King Balton, extremely well. It was the luck of the gods though, that put the Duke in the position he found himself in now. He was about to be able to earn the favor of the new King and elevate his standing with his liege, Lord Brach, as well.

  Back before the Summer’s Day festival, the day after King Balton died, but before the news was made public, the Duke had been summoned to a library room deep inside the walls of Lakeside Castle. He had come to Lakeside with a small group of his men, and a nephew that his wife had elevated to some sort of godly status in her mind. She could have no children of her own, so she latched onto a select few of her sister’s children.

  The nephew was an archer. The Duke, at the direction of his wife, and her gaggle of honking sisters, had come to the castle to ask Lord Gregory if the boy could accompany the group going to the Summer’s Day Festival. Of course, there was already an archer of great skill among the Lion Lord’s party. Of course, this outing to the Festival had been planned for months, and of course, this was an inconvenient last minute request. So, of course, a fat pouch of golden lions had been passed to Lord Gregory. The Lion Lord had declined the bribe politely, but did make a suggestion to the surprised Duke. Duke Fairchild passed a far thinner bag of coin to Lord Gregory’s archer, who suddenly decided that he needed an assistant. The nephew was pleased to be hired for the position. Duke Fairchild was pleased to be rid of the boy, and was on his way before anyone could change their mind.

  Since the boy was out of his hair now, the Duke wanted to take care of some other business. He dismissed his men to the tavern near the North Road Gate with simple instructions. They were not to get too drunk, and they were to still be at the tavern when he returned from his engagement.

  After sneaking through one of the many back entrances into the castle proper, the Duke eased into the secondary dining hall, and scanned the crowded room. It was just before midday, and most of the castle staff were there, taking a meal before going off to serve the nobility. It hadn’t taken him long to spot what he was after. She was a server in the hall, and he wanted her to serve him privately, just like she had served him the last time he had been at Lakeside Castle without his wife. It came as a great shock when his brief conversation with her was interrupted by a nervous young pageboy, sporting the King’s sigil on his breast.

  Disgruntled, but not so much as to disregard a Royal Summons, the Duke followed the boy through the castle, wondering the whole way, how his presence had been so quickly discovered.

  He had met Lord Gregory in the stable yard as the Summer’s Day party was about to depart, and he had only just left his men. The midday bell hadn’t rung, and he couldn’t fathom how anyone could know he was in the city, much less send a pageboy to summon him in a particular room inside the castle.

  As the boy led him deeper and deeper into the castle’s depths, he began to grow nervous. He wondered if some of the things he had done to his captives after the Battle of Coldfrost was coming back to haunt him. Had he offended one of the Greater Lords? He searched his mind for every single encounter he had ever had with King Balton and the favored courtiers. He couldn’t remember ever doing anything that might warrant this strange summons. What made it worse was that all the faces he saw, nobleman and servant alike, all looked sullen. He could tell that something was dreadfully wrong. He only hoped that he wasn’t the cause, or the one who would take the blame, for whatever had happened.

  The library room was small and crowded. A candelabrum on a polished oak reading table provided insufficient light. The table was pushed against a desk, and the surfaces of both were covered in open maps. There were four – no, five – men in the room, Duke Fairchild was certain. The only faces that were illuminated in the sparse light, were those of his liege, Lord Brach, and the nearly albino skinned Royal Wizard, Pael. The Duke wondered, when he saw the creepy wizard smiling at him, if the mage had used some sort of devilry to locate him.

  The other men in the room were standing out of the candlelight at the back wall. Their faces couldn’t be discerned. This was obviously intentional. They were either observing, or silently guarding. Duke Fairchild knew that they were there whether they wanted him to or not. Their presence only served to put him on the defensive, and his liege, Lord Brach, noticed.


  “There’s no time for formalities, Vincent. I can sense your concern,” Lord Brach said. “I trust you can keep the words spoken here to yourself?”

  It wasn’t really a question, but the Duke answered with a nod. The two men knew each other as well as any two men possibly could. The trust between them was deep and generations old. Brach often used Fairchild’s skills to extract information from rogues and road bandits, and Duke Fairchild’s stronghold was ideal for housing prisoners, who might suddenly need to disappear from the realm altogether. Duke Fairchild was relieved by the expression on Lord Brach’s face. From it, he could tell that he was not the focus of this strange meeting.

  Pael looked at Duke Fairchild as if he were studying the inside of his skull. Pael’s gaze was unnerving, but Vincent Fairchild didn’t blanch under the scrutiny. He had committed horrors that were unspeakable. It would take more than the stare of a man, so white that he could’ve been carved out of marble, to unsettle him.

  “The King is dead,” Lord Brach said finally. “Poisoned, or magicked; we’re not sure which, but that is not your concern. We’re keeping it quiet for now. I only tell you so that you might see the magnitude of the duty we’re placing upon you.”

  “Bring the stableman!” Pael commanded.

  The strange wizard had a sinister, giddy quality about him that touched a nerve in the Duke.

  Two of the men standing against the back wall stepped forward into the light. Fairchild instantly recognized one of Lord Brach’s personal guards. He acknowledged the man with a nod.

  The other was dressed in what were once probably quality working clothes, but were now stained filthy with sweat, vomit, and more than a little blood. The stableman’s face was swollen on one side, as if he held an apple in his cheek. Fairchild saw that there was another man still concealed in the shadows. He silently congratulated himself for counting correctly.