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

by M. R. Mathias

  “They will not stop until there is no one left to kill,” Vaegon said sadly. Hyden could tell that the elf was speaking about more than just the skirmish before them. He meant that this was only the beginning of something far bigger, and more destructive.

  “The arrow that almost killed you, was loosed by men flying the Blacksword of Highwander,” Hyden said.

  He wasn’t sure why it mattered. He just figured that the elf would want to know who had tried to kill him. He noticed then that all the contempt had faded from the elf’s expression.

  “You’re sure of this?” Vaegon asked, without turning his eyes from the fighting.

  “I saw them on the rise, there.” Hyden pointed to the place beyond the targets, where he had seen them. He noticed for the first time, several dark plumes of smoke rising up from the Ways beyond.

  Vaegon said something to his brother and father in the elven tongue, and then he listened as his father responded. While they spoke, Hyden looked towards his people. It seemed that they, and the three elves, were the only factions in all of Summer’s Day that were not fighting.

  “Fare thee well Hyden Hawk,” Drent said, with a slight bow. “I hope we see each other again in better times.”

  Dieter didn’t say anything to Hyden. He scowled, as he gave his brother a quick hug. There was no mistaking that the look was for the human that his brother now owed his life to. The two elves wasted no time starting off towards where Hyden had pointed out the original attackers. Vaegon gritted his teeth as he watched them go.

  Hyden was about to explain to the elf that his people needed him, that he had to help them gather up their belongings, and make the journey back into the mountains, when the sun was abruptly eclipsed. Shadow enveloped them like a shroud. It was as if night had come in the middle of the afternoon.

  Talon leapt from Hyden’s shoulder. At first, it appeared that the little hawkling would flutter straight to the ground, but about halfway down, his wings caught air. A few flaps later, Talon was flying like an arrow towards the target stands.

  Fighting to breathe in the thick cloud of smoke that had blown over them, Hyden searched for the bird. He spotted him perched on one of the targets over fifty feet away, and marveled at the distance the little chick had flown. Thinking the bird had exhausted itself, he strode off to get it. A light breeze dissipated some of the smoke and allowed a bit of sun to find its way to them. A single ray, brighter than the rest, spotlighted Talon. Vaegon, with his keen elven sight, pointed this out to Hyden. The illuminating sunshine held on the hawkling, while all around it, varying degrees of shadow churned and roiled with the breeze. When Hyden and Vaegon were a few paces away from the target, the bird leapt into the air again, and flew even farther away.

  Hyden glanced back at his clansmen. His father was holding his mother around the shoulders, comforting her at the edge of the huddle. Hyden was sure that she hadn’t taken Gerard’s departure well, and that his own presence would help ease her worry, especially after she had seen a few hundred people get massacred only a stone’s throw away. His weren’t kingdom folk. They didn’t understand battle on a large scale. War was something Berda talked about in her tales, a thing as vague and incomprehensible as fairy trees, ocean waves, and sea ships. He wanted to go to them. His people needed him, but Talon was leading him away. Deep inside himself, he felt the pull of the hawkling. He knew without a doubt that it was his destiny to follow the bird. The feeling was overwhelming.

  Vaegon saw the worried expression on Hyden’s face. He also saw the spirit aura of both Hyden and his familiar. The ability to see such things was part of his elven sight. The spirit aura of the bird, the man, and the elf, were as intertwined as a vine is to the tree that supports it. To Vaegon, the path for all three of them was clear.

  “Come,” he urged gently, guiding Hyden towards where Talon had landed. “Your people are protected by the Wolf King’s men. They’re safe enough without you.”

  As if Vaegon’s comforting words were the words of the White Goddess herself, Hyden turned towards his destiny and set off after the bird.

  Lord Alvin Gregory, the Lion Lord of Westland, was sure that he was in a living hell. No matter how hard he prayed for death, it would not come and take him. Some blasted insect had stung his shoulder, causing it to swell to the size of a melon, and his body was so bruised and broken from his Brawl with the Seaward Monster, that his piss was a bloody red froth. He could only remain conscious for short periods of time, in which, pure madness reigned around him. He found himself waking this time, to shouts, screams, and the sounds of distant ringing steel, but he couldn’t move to look outside his tent. At one point, a soldier with the Blacksword of Highwander on his shield, looked in at him with violent intent, but he had immediately been thrown to the side, and tackled by another soldier. Now the familiar voice of Gowden, one of his captains, was crying out, “TO ME MEN! TO ME!” as if they were on a battlefield somewhere. The Lion Lord tried to yell out and ask what was happening, but his throat was as dry as the bark on last year’s dead fall. He remembered vaguely his father, or was it some other voice?, telling him that there’d been another fight after the Brawl, a fight between some of his men and some of the people from Seaward.

  That snotty boy that Duke Fairchild had insisted that they bring along, had been beaten half to death, the voice had added, and one of the timberjacks had been stabbed, in a bad sort of way. Had that been this morning? Or was it two mornings ago? It could’ve been a week ago, for all Lord Gregory could figure.

  He was just about to drift into blackness again, when a leather boot came tearing through his tent’s wall. The leg that was still attached to it, stepped, twisted, and then tore the canvas wide open as it pulled free. Lord Gregory was blinded by the brilliance of the sun. The boot stepped back closer to him, and it became obvious that it was connected to a man who was engaged in serious sword play. The boot lifted then, and came down on his over swollen shoulder in a stomp. A gush of warm, thick pus, that smelled of rot and vomit, erupted from the wound. The harsh daylight in his eyes wasn’t nearly as blinding as the pain that ripped through him like a jagged blade. He tried to scream, but the effort only served to tear his parched throat open. In his mind, he cursed every god and goddess he could think of for leaving him alive to suffer this way.

  Gowden’s voice shouted out another command, but it was cut short in a way that left no room to wonder why it had ended so abruptly. A relative silence followed, where all Lord Gregory could hear was a few footfalls coming from close by, and the sound of retreating hooves. He craned his neck to see what he could see, but his shoulder throbbed with the effort. The tattered wall of his tent blocked the view on one side, but on the other, he saw a handful of men fighting in the distance. He couldn’t tell if any of them were his. He squinted up at the sky and prayed for death again. The bright sun was suddenly blocked out as a face appeared, hovering upside down, over his. He hoped that his prayer had been answered, but was disappointed when the person began speaking to him.

  “Lord Gregory!” Squire Wyndall said. The boy was breathless, distraught, and covered in gore from the battle. “Milord, we’ve been routed,” his unturned voice squeaked and cracked as he spoke. “First those fargin Seawardsmen came, then the Blacksword.”

  “What? Who?” the Lion Lord croaked. Then he managed to say, “Water!”

  Wyndall fumbled through the tent looking for a wineskin or a flask as he spoke.

  “Fargin Seawardsmen got us at first!”

  A pitiful groan from not so far away caused the boy to poke his head out of Lord Gregory’s tent and look around. Seeing nothing that was immediately threatening, he continued.

  “Denny, Turl, and half the others ran like curs and left us at a disadvantage. Ah! Here we are.”

  He poured a sip of water from the skin into his Lord’s mouth, and then another.

  “We had all but bested the lot of them, but the blasted Highwander Blacksword warriors came a riding through out of nowhere.
It was just a few of them, but they hacked and cleaved everything in their path.”

  Wyndall paused for breath, and poured another dollop of water into Lord Gregory’s mouth.

  “Why?” Lord Gregory asked after he swallowed. He didn’t really expect the boy to know the answer.

  “That’s not the whole of it, m’ lord,” the boy continued. “They did the same thing in the Ways. The Blacksword rode down unarmed folks, crofters, and merchants. Women and children even!”

  Wyndall’s face contorted at the idea of it all. Anguish was threatening to take hold of him.

  “They cut down Westland innocents, Redwolf soldiers, and they killed half a herd of Valleyan horses. Then they set fire to some of the Dakaneese wagering pavilions, while people were still in them,” he sniffled. “Then they came through here. It was only me, Gowden, and Parker who survived it!”

  He started breaking down then. Tears flowed down his dirty cheeks, and the ghastly reality of the horrors he had just seen, racked through his young body with a force. He shuddered as he finished.

  “A Seawardsman got Gowden, and Willem, was, he was down. I fell and I - I didn’t get back up. Not until after - after they had moved on.” He slumped down into himself, and began bawling like a babe.

  They know about King Balton’s death, Lord Gregory thought to himself. The thick blackness in his skull seemed to be ebbing. Fear of what was to come was like a torch light in the dark foggy muck. He was sure that someone here knew that King Balton was dead.

  The funeral had been public. Poisoned, King Balton had told him, from his own deathbed. Now, Prince Glendar, the wizard Pael’s little puppet, would have the whole of Westland behind him when he started his war on the east. Gregory couldn’t figure out why the kingdoms of the east were playing so perfectly into Glendar’s hands though. Another thought struck him then like a hammer blow. Lady Trella, his wife.

  “Wyndall,” He rasped. The boy was lost in his grief and didn’t seem to hear him. “Wyndall, listen to me!”

  This time, the boy responded by wiping his nose on his forearm, and taking a deep breath.

  “Yes, my lord?” he whimpered.

  “Listen very closely, Wyndall.”

  It was painful to be speaking, but things had to be done and people had to be warned. King Balton had given him orders that still had to be carried out, and now he understood the magnitude of them. The King had foreseen his own poisoning, and this collapse of order, and had prepared for it wisely. Gregory was sorry that he wouldn’t be able to complete his part of the design. Hopefully, Mikahl would be able to get along without him.

  “Take my ring. It will be proof of the origin of this message. Take anything else you might need, save for my horse. Ride like the wind to my stronghold, at Lakebottom, and tell my wife…Tell Lady Trella these things for me…”

  When he finished giving his orders, he made Wyndall repeat the messages and swear to deliver them. He also made him swear to protect Lady Trella with his life. The boy foolishly thought that he had shamed himself when he hadn’t gotten back up earlier to be slaughtered by the impossible odds. He was glad for the chance to regain his honor, and he gave his solemn oath that he would die before he let any harm come to her.

  Sometime later, Lord Gregory slipped out from the blackness again. He had dreamed that he had died, but he found now that he no longer wished to be dead. He still hurt so badly that he couldn’t move his body, and he was sure he had pissed himself yet again, but his mind seemed clear. He felt, at the moment, like he might somehow survive. He had a duty to King Balton that needed to be fulfilled. Its importance demanded that he get up and fight for his life, but no matter how hard he tried to rise, he couldn’t.

  He was still laying there, half conscious in his misery, when an eager carrion bird came flapping in, and landed on his face. It was a hungry looking, scraggly brown crow. He was sure that it would try to eat his eyes out first. They usually did. He had seen it happen dozens of times. He wished he could move his arms to bat it away, but he couldn’t. When he rolled his head and yelled, the bird just flapped and hovered, and then re-landed, as if his nose were its favorite perch.

  Feeling stupid now for cursing the gods and asking them to take his life, he squeezed his eyes closed, and waited for the inevitable. He only wished that he wasn’t letting his beloved King, his wife, and probably the entire realm down, by dying. He remembered his mother then, of all people, chiding him for something or another in that matter-of-fact voice that only mothers can muster.

  “Be careful what you wish for Alvin, because you just might get a barrel full of it!”

  Chapter 16

  “Look!” Mikahl whispered.

  Loudin turned to see what had alarmed Mikahl. The tattoo covered hunter was leading them due east now, trying to get them to the Leif Greyn River before their pursuers caught up with them. At the very least, he wanted them in the thick, dense strand of forest that ran alongside the riverbank. They could use the cover to make an ambush point, or better yet, just hide until the trouble passed. It was a foolish hope, Loudin knew. If the men had tracked them this far, a confrontation was going to be unavoidable. Hiding wouldn’t be a viable option. He saw what Mikahl had seen, the lantern light that their pursuers were using to care for the man who had stuck his arm into Loudin’s steel-jawed trap had just been extinguished.

  “Did you see it go out?” asked Loudin.

  “No. I looked back, and it was still way back there where it’s been. Then, just now, I looked again, and it was gone.”

  “Aye.” Loudin’s voice was grim. “They’ll be after us again then. We’ve gained a turn of the glass, or two, on them. Not much more than that.”

  He climbed off of his horse and went to his pack.

  “You’ll be wanting to string that bow of yours now. We’ll stay on foot until we get a little daylight, but, if they want you bad enough to ride through this forest in the darkness, then they’ll be catching up soon, no matter what we do.”

  It took a while for the seriousness of the situation to sink in. It made Mikahl nervous, to the point of trembling. He was glad to be on foot. In the saddle, especially with the lizard skin making the ride so awkward and uncomfortable, he would’ve been fidgety and distracted.

  Walking briskly behind Loudin, he was at least moving, and forced to listen to the hunter’s barely audible footfalls. Only every now and again, when the forest’s canopy broke overhead, could he see the tattoo covered man, and then, only fleetingly. He was grateful for Loudin’s help; even though he was sure that the hunter would’ve abandoned him long ago, had he not needed Windfoot to help carry his prize lizard skin.

  “Why did they stop so long? Why risk the light?” Mikahl asked.

  “It probably took a while to get that leg or arm out of my trap, lad. And they know that we know that they’re after us now.”

  Mikahl thought he heard a slight chuckle escape the old hunter’s mouth as he spoke.

  “Then, it took a while longer to splint the broken limb.”

  The mirth suddenly fell from Loudin’s voice, like a heavy stone.

  “After that, they found the other traps, and then wisely rested their horses so that they’d be fresh enough to run us down in the morning light.”

  “What will we do?” Mikahl’s mind was racing.

  “The river is not that far ahead of us. I can smell it.”

  Loudin’s voice held very little confidence, and Mikahl found no comfort in it. Mikahl though, was starting to form an idea of what they should do on his own.

  “The forest grows thicker there,” Loudin was saying. “…more underbrush. The trees are smaller and closer together. We might be able to ambush –”

  “But we don’t need that cover!” Mikahl cut him off. His idea had manifested itself into a plan the moment Loudin had spoken the word, “ambush.”

  “Don’t need cover?” Loudin responded rather loudly. He stopped in his tracks and cringed at himself for being so careless with his voi
ce. “Are you daft?” he finished in a harsh whisper.

  “Why don’t you hunt bark lizards with a bow and arrows?”

  “Because arrows won’t pierce the hide, but –” Loudin suddenly understood what Mikahl was getting at. He didn’t want to risk damaging his prize, but it was a grand idea. There was no better camouflage in the forest, and it would be an utter surprise to be sprung upon out here in the relatively open woods. He thought about it for a few more moments.

  “We’ll make a blind then, just as soon as we can see to do it,” said Loudin, finally.

  If Mikahl could’ve seen the look of respect on the hunter’s face, he would’ve beamed with pride, but as it was, he could barely see Loudin at all.

  The length of time that passed between their idea’s conception and daybreak seemed like an eternity to Mikahl. Already, his old life as King Balton’s Squire, living in a warm castle, where the biggest concern of his day was which serving lass he would try to bed that evening, was but a memory. They were the memories of a lifetime ago. In a way, he was glad to be preparing to make a stand. The fear of flight, of being chased and hunted, was wearing off now. He was an excellent swordsman, one of the best on the training yard at Lakeside Castle. He was a fair archer too. He had been trained by Westland’s best, and Lord Gregory had advised him personally while Mikahl had served him at Lakebottom Stronghold. He was ready to stand and fight. At least, he was telling himself these sorts of things while he was helping Loudin unroll the bark lizard’s skin to make their blind.

  On the ground, between two tree trunks that were spaced about four paces apart, they sat the roll. They unrolled only enough of the skin so that the top edge was at chest height. Then they stretched it between the two trees. To pin it in place, they broke the shafts off of two arrowheads, caked them in dirt, and hammered them into the tree with the butt of Loudin’s dagger.