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

by M. R. Mathias

  “Mikahl!” The Lion Lord shouted, in a voice that was thick with emotion. “Oh Mikahl!”

  The sound of Lord Gregory’s voice was startling. He was the last person Mikahl would’ve expected to come across out here. He shook his head, and rubbed at his eyes, wondering if he was hearing and seeing things.

  Loudin recognized the embroidered patch on the king’s-man’s saddle and drew his dagger with a muffled curse. Loudin’s bladed pike, his favorite weapon, had been shoved through the center of the lizard-skin roll to keep it from sagging in the middle.

  Mikahl’s hand went to the hilt of Duke Fairchild’s sword at his hip, while his other hand felt behind him to make sure that Ironspike was still secure in its place on Windfoot’s saddle. Only when he was sure that it was safe, did he let his full attention fall on the familiar man reining up his horse before them.

  It took half a minute for Mikahl to register that the pale, sickly man was really Lord Gregory, but when he did, the dam of emotion he had been holding back inside himself burst forth in a teary flood.

  Both Westlanders dismounted and embraced each other fiercely. They held on for a good long moment, before Lord Gregory moved Mikahl back to arm’s length. The Lion Lord of Lake Bottom eyed him proudly.

  A small hawkling alighted on a tree limb nearby, drawing Loudin’s attention away from the reunion. The young bird seemed unafraid of them, and that was a curious thing to the seasoned hunter.

  “Are you well?” Gregory asked.

  “I should ask you the same question, milord,” Mikahl returned.

  The man before him was but a shadow of the mighty warrior he remembered. It seemed strange to Mikahl that the Lord of Lake Bottom would treat him so cordially. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but it had only been a few weeks since they had crossed paths outside King Balton’s chamber.

  “No more milords from you, Mikahl,” Lord Gregory said firmly. “Never again. This isn’t the place to explain, but I promise I will.” As if he had just remembered something hugely important, Lord Gregory looked at Mikahl’s hip. Alarmed, he asked, “Where is it?”

  “It’s safe,” Mikahl answered, taking a step backwards reflexively.

  There was no doubt what the “It” was he was referring to. King Balton hadn’t said anything about giving Ironspike to Lord Gregory, and as much as Mikahl loved and respected the man before him, he wouldn’t let him have the sword.

  “I don’t want it,” Lord Gregory nodded his understanding. “The sword is your charge. Now that we’re both free of Glendar and his dark hearted wizard, it’s you that I must keep safe. King Balton spoke to me just before he spoke to you. Do you remember?”

  Mikahl relaxed a bit. He remembered.

  “Aye, milord,” he acknowledged.

  “I should be saying that to you,” the Lion Lord ruffled Mikahl’s hair like he had a thousand times before, after sword drills and grappling practice.

  A memory from one of the summers when Mikahl had squired for the Lion Lord at Lake Bottom, caused him to smile. Looking back, Mikahl realized that Lord Gregory had personally groomed him to be the King’s Squire.

  “Who is your companion?” Lord Gregory asked.

  “I am Loudin Drake,” Loudin said. “And I know who you are, Lord Lion. I saw you take down the Valleyan Stallion a few years back. I never forget someone who makes me a profit.”

  “If I’d only done as well this year –” Lord Gregory let his voice trail off.

  He turned his horse tactfully, avoiding further explanation. It was obvious that these two men hadn’t attended, nor heard about, the massacre at Summer’s Day. If they had, he didn’t think a Seawardsman would be interacting so peacefully with a Westlander.

  “I have some interesting friends waiting up ahead; warm food and a hot fire as well.” Lord Gregory let out a strange uneasy laugh. “One of them is among us now. Would you like to meet him?”

  Mikahl and Loudin both looked around the area curiously. There was not even the hint of another person about.

  “Yes, we would,” Loudin answered for the both of them.

  Lord Gregory pointed toward the young hawkling that was perched in the nearby tree.

  “That is Talon. A sort of friend of a friend, I should say.”

  In response to his introduction Talon tried to shriek out a fierce cry. It came out sounding more like an angry caw. He leapt from the tree, and fluttered gracelessly down onto Lord Gregory’s head.

  Mikahl burst out laughing at this. Loudin joined in the mirth, but his mind was wondering about the nature of the Lion Lord’s friends. In his experience, the type of men, if you could call them men, who kept the close company of animals, were the sort of men one should avoid. Friends aside, it was quite funny seeing the mighty Western Lord with a bird perched on his head.

  “I have much to tell you both,” Lord Gregory said, after brushing Talon back into flight. “Grave news from the Festival, but I would rather you heard the tale from my companions, for they can tell it firsthand. I would like to hear the story, though, of how you came to be wearing the Coldfrost Butcher’s sword, Mikahl.”

  He patted the boy on his back and climbed back into his saddle with a groan.

  “The telling of it will kill the time between here and there, I hope.”

  Mikahl told Lord Gregory the whole story while they rode. From his meeting with King Balton at his deathbed, all the way up until the present. He told of the two bandits he had been forced to kill after fleeing the castle; the terrifying ordeal with the barkskin lizard, and the grisly battle with Duke Fairchild and his henchmen. The only part left out, was how Ironspike had lit up with its wild magical glow when he had used it. He glared at Loudin when he was done to let the hunter know that part of the tale was to be kept between the two of them.

  They were well met just after dark, when they rode into the camp. The smell of rabbit stew being cooked was pleasant, and the fire was blazing bright and warm. They made introductions and small talk while they ate.

  Mikahl was awed, and mildly disturbed by Vaegon’s feral yellow eyes. Hyden’s strange friendship with Talon didn’t sit too well with him either.

  In turn, Hyden was shocked by the enormity of the bark lizard skin. He had seen plenty of bark lizards in the Evermore Forest on his clan’s journeys to and from the Harvest Lodge, but nothing remotely close to the size of the one Loudin and Mikahl had killed. He readily agreed that Borg, or any other of the mountain giants who roamed the range, would pay handsomely for such a prize.

  During all of this, Loudin sensed their unease at his presence, and after the meal was done, he asked about it. It was then that Vaegon calmly, and with the political neutrality that only a non-human could muster, started the tale of the massacre at Summer’s Day.

  Both Hyden and Lord Gregory added bits and pieces as it was told. They also watched Loudin closely, gauging his reaction to it all. The hunter seemed saddened, yet impartial about the events, and when Vaegon had finished, he told them of his long ago departure from the ways of the kingdoms of man in general. He was a hunter and trader now, a free man who had paid his dues, both on land, and at sea. He held no ill will toward Lord Gregory for killing the Seaward Monster during the Brawl. Nor did he seem to harbor any opinion about Willa the Witch Queen using her arrows to turn the volatile situation into an outright battle. It wasn’t his business. He wasn’t too keen on the idea of war though. War wasn’t good for the hunting trade, save for the selling of meat to the troops.

  Mikahl, having never been out of Westland until now, seemed oblivious to the politics and the ramifications of what he was hearing. He was more interested in the hawkling and the elf.

  Lord Gregory seemed irritated by this, and several times throughout, had over-expressed his opinion to him. Mikahl wanted only to find the giant named Borg, and deliver King Balton’s messages and the sword, as he had been instructed to do. He was wanted in the west now, most likely dead or alive, and for a healthy reward. He didn’t feel that he could afford t
o concern himself with wars and such. He would be a hunter, like Loudin, or maybe he could move to Valleya and raise horses, or maybe sign on to a ship and sail to the distant land of Harthgar. The possibilities were endless. He decided that he would worry about all of that when he was finished with his duty to King Balton. It was getting late, and at the moment, all he wanted to do was get a good night’s sleep.

  He didn’t get his wish. The strange, dark beast haunted his dreams again. It was hunting him, and he could feel it drawing near. He could feel its hot, fetid breath on his skin, and its slimy drool as it salivated for a taste of his flesh. He woke in the night and took Ironspike from Windfoot’s saddle, and then lay back down with the sword in his arms. Only then, did the monsters leave his mind so that sleep, deep and dreamless, could take him.

  The next evening, Hyden Hawk called the group to a halt. They were dangerously close to his clan’s village, and he didn’t want to bring them all into it with him. He and Loudin would go and ask the Elders’ permission to bring the kingdom folk and the elf.

  Vaegon agreed to stay and make sure that the two Westlanders didn’t try to follow. Hyden only took Loudin because the old hunter had been there before. The Elders would probably be angry with the big tattoo covered man for attempting to lead Mikahl to the village, but not so angry as to not let him purchase the mountain gear and hides he was seeking. After the way the festival had ended, Hyden was sure that his people hadn’t rounded up all of the seed, tools and supplies that they had wanted to. Loudin’s coin would be needed later when Uncle Condlin, and Hyden’s father, Harrap made their annual end of summer journey down into Wildermont to stock up on things for the long mountain winter. Once upon a time, getting to make that journey with his father and uncle had been all Hyden could think about. Now, the idea of it seemed insignificant.

  Loudin forced himself to leave the lizard skin behind, and go with Hyden. It was hard, but after Mikahl had assured him that he would protect it with his life, the hunter relented.

  In the darkness, the Skyler Clan village was nearly invisible to the naked eye, and had Loudin not been there before, he would’ve missed it entirely. He found he was glad that they had happened upon Hyden and his group. Without them, he might never have found the place, and would’ve had to listen to Mikahl’s chastising forever.

  Though the clans-folk were all inside their dwellings, enjoying the warmth of their hearth fires, not a speck of light could be seen from outside. Their homes and common areas had been carved into the sides of the valley ages ago by the giants. Huge scallops of earth had been scooped deeply out of the rock, and then squared rooms were constructed out of stone slabs. The rubble and scree had been piled back over, covering them completely. The same had been done with the long, winding entry tunnels that led from the outside world into the rooms. The natural shape of the valley, had been restored over the halls and dwellings, and after a few seasons of growth, it appeared, to the unknowing eye, as plain and empty as any other valley in the area. Well placed wooden doors, which the clansmen hung to keep out the weather, sat a dozen or more feet inside the entry shafts. The only way anyone who didn’t know where they were would ever see one of them, was to wander into one of the dark overgrown cave like holes that pocked the sides of the valley. Some of the underground rooms were so vast, that the clans-folk housed herds of rams and goats in them during the harsh winter months. At night, only the smell of cooking, and the occasional noise that escaped up through the many hidden ventilation shafts, would give them away. It was different during the day. In the light of the sun, the valley crawled with life. A life kept joyous and peaceful by keeping the kingdom folk and the elves out of it.

  Hyden knew that someone would be watching them approach from one of the many hidden nooks and precipices along the ridges. They would signal his location with tiny mirror flashes that seemed to be no more than flighty fire bugs in night. It came as no surprise to Hyden when a sudden light pierced the darkness ahead of them. It was Harrap, Hyden’s father, and he was standing in the entry tunnel that led to the Elders’ council chamber. By the way the shadows moved about in the swathe of steady blue light that spilled across the valley floor, he could tell that his father wasn’t alone. The Elders had been waiting for him.

  Harrap made a piercing whistle as they came upon him. His look was quizzical, as he recognized Loudin. He looked at his son, and a dozen questions swam across his eyes. Talon came flapping down out of the sky and landed on Hyden’s shoulder. That alone seemed to answer many of the questions, but it was obvious that his father wanted to know what had happened to the elf and the Westland kingsman.

  “Take our guest,” The word guest was stressed. “To the gathering room, and feed him,” Harrap commanded to the darkness.

  Out of the gloom, Hyden’s slightly older cousins, Tylen and Sharoo, stepped up on each side of Loudin.

  “Make a comfortable place for him to sleep.”

  Harrap turned and faced the hunter then.

  “Well met Loudin Drake. The business that we have with my son will take some time to finish. I apologize for the rudeness.”

  Before Loudin could reply, Harrap gestured for Hyden to enter the tunnel he had been blocking, and a moment later, closed the deeply set door behind them.

  The medium sized room seemed over-crowded to Hyden. In its center, the huge skull of a dragon sat. The top of its brain cavity had been long removed, and inside the brain pan, a torrent of magical blue flame raged wildly.

  All of the Elders were there, sitting anxiously around the frightening looking horned skull. Hyden could tell that something was amiss. Their faces all looked grim as they reflected the eerie blue light.

  Talon shivered on Hyden’s shoulder. Hyden could sense the bird’s fear, or maybe he could sense the bird sensing his own fear. He wasn’t sure. The one thing that was certain, was that he and Talon both were both afraid.

  As Mikahl slept, less than a mile beyond the rim of the valley of the Skyler Clan, the creature from the blackness stopped hunting his dreams. The evil things still imprisoned in the Nethers howled their jealousy as the beast left them behind. It was coming now, and getting closer. It had broken free of the horrific nothingness that had held it before. The hulking evil that had let it loose, laughed at his accomplishment. Something was coming for Mikahl in this world now, not in the dream world. It knew where he was, and it was coming quickly.

  When Mikahl woke, he seemed to know these things. When he took Ironspike from Windfoot’s saddle this night, he found that it was of little comfort. He knew that his nightmare had somehow come to life, and that one of the creatures from his dreams would be coming for him soon. He had to let the others know. It was only right to let them know the risks they faced by helping him go deeper into the Giant Mountains. He would understand if they chose not to accompany him. It was their right. He wasn’t really sure why any of them seemed to want to help in the first place. Alone or together, either way, he would have to stand and face the beast that was coming for him. What other choice did he have? For a long time, he watched the dying flames of the campfire, and pondered that very question, but no answer came to him.

  Chapter 23

  In the days that had passed since they crossed the Everflow River into Wildermont, Gerard Skyler had seen a hundred wonders, each more amazing to him than the last. As he lazed in the morning sun, on the foredeck of the riverboat Shaella had chartered, he thought about the past few days and the sights he had seen.

  They had been lucky at High Crossing. The Redwolf soldiers had only wanted to talk with them, to question them about the Summer’s Day Festival. A lone rider had come across the bridge before them and told the soldiers that some sort of bloody skirmish had broken out under the Spire. Shaella’s party had apparently left before it had started, so they had nothing to offer the bridge guard. What Gerard couldn’t figure out, was how the rider had passed them on their way south. Shaella reminded him that they had followed the river, not the wagon road, and that he
had slept all of a day recuperating from the saddle soreness of that first night’s ride. After being reminded of that deep, dreamless sleep that Shaella’s potion had brought on, he had to concede that a dozen riders could have passed them without his knowledge.

  As Shaella had promised, that first night in the northern outskirts of Castlemont City, they had gotten a room at an inn. She had made love to him there, and it had been breathtaking, to say the least.

  The following day they rode toward Castlemont proper. It was an entire day of traveling, down a crowded, building-lined road, just to get to the heart of the city that had been built in the shadow of King Jarrek’s palace. The buildings, near the inn they had stayed in, had been single and double storey affairs of wood and crude stonework. They were widely spaced, with large, fenced pens full of goats, chickens, and sometimes squealing children. Most had wooden slate roofs and dingy exteriors. Some were decorated with signs advertising their particular type of business: taverns, leather works, bakeries, and so on.

  As the day’s journey wore on, the size of the buildings grew, while the spaces between them shrunk away to little more than alleyways. The crude construction gave way to more solid and symmetrical brick and mortar block work. The roofs were steeper, and some were shingled with colorful baked tiles. A picket fence surrounded a home here or there. The air was full of the smell of hot steel, and the sound of smiths’ hammers clanging away could be heard from behind many a door.

  The road wound its way through the foothills of the Wilder Mountains. The small mountain range rose up out of the earth on the eastern bank of the Leif Greyn River. While the roadside along the riverbank was packed with building after building, the lush, green hillsides were dotted with larger stone structures. Long dry-stone walls, snaked over the dips and rises of the rolling landscape, penning large herds of cattle or sheep. Some of the larger buildings were crenellated, and had squat, round towers built up alongside of them. “Strongholds,” Shaella had called them.