Mikahl woke with a start. Thunder boomed, and then grumbled from not so far away. A peal of lightning streaked across the sky, silhouetting the jagged peaks of the mountains that loomed over them to the north. The air was frigid, and steam billowed from Mikahl’s lungs, as he fought to get his breath. The waning moon was still in the sky, its pale blue glow highlighting the tops of the clouds that were rolling over the mountaintops towards them. He shivered. The clouds were thick, black, and churning violently. It took only moments before they completely blotted out the moonlight. Suddenly, the whole world was engulfed in blackness, just as in his dream.
Mikahl’s hair suddenly stood on end. A massive crackle of thunder exploded, and a jagged streak of white lightning filled his world.
It struck no more than a dozen paces away from the camp. The concussion from the blast was so great, that it literally took away Mikahl’s breath. Loudin came up with a raspy yelp. One of the horses screamed in fright. The others pulled at their tethers, trying to get away. Across the little stream, the old gnarled oak tree showered the night with orange sparks, as it slowly split in two. Already, its lesser limbs and branches were consumed in dancing flames.
Mikahl wasn’t sure why he did it, but the urge to do so was irresistible. He got up, hurried over to Windfoot’s saddle, and untied the straps that held Ironspike to it.
Duke Fairchild’s blade lay alongside his bedroll, but it was completely forgotten. He sat back down with the King’s blade in his lap, ready to draw it from its scabbard at a moment’s notice. While he and Loudin huddled silently, waiting for the storm to subside, Mikahl watched the slow, flaming death of the once mighty oak tree, and found that he was thankful beyond words for its dying light.
When dawn broke, Lord Gregory mounted his horse, and started back towards Mikahl. He was feeling as well as he had since before the Brawl, despite the wet and gloomy weather.
If Loudin, or Mikahl, had seen him coming, then most likely they would have set a trap or an ambush for him, but they didn’t catch sight of him until he topped the ridge opposite the one they were on. They spotted the lone rider and knew without a doubt they had been seen. There was no need for trickery after that, only caution.
It was nearly midday then, and the rain that had been drizzling for hours, was starting to subside. Out, over the Leif Greyn Valley to the south, the clouds were letting go of their burden fully. A steel gray wall of natural fury could be seen inching its way over the sacred grounds. The lightning storm had been a brilliant display, and the continuous thunder had made sleep all but impossible. The day was cold, damp, and somewhat depressing. It was as if the storm had left a dismal stain, both in the sky, and in the tired minds of those who had witnessed its power.
“Should we keep going?” Mikahl asked from Windfoot’s saddle.
Loudin was sitting on his mount beside him. Both watched as the lone rider approached, with seemingly excited haste. Loudin was annoyed at being so exposed. What if it had been a dozen armed kingdom men across the way instead of only one? What if it had been an angry band of rock trolls? What if? What if? What if? Be happy he finally told himself. It’s just a single man. At least it’s not worse.
“He’s about to fall out of his saddle, for all that waving and hollering,” Loudin observed. “Could be a trap. There could be a handful of men waiting on the other side of that rise.” He didn’t sound convincing, not even to himself. Still the possibility was there.
Since Mikahl had killed the Westland nobleman, since that eerie magical blue glow had filled the forest around them, Loudin had let Mikahl have a say in things. He would put the facts and possibilities out there, and Mikahl would ask questions, and give his opinion on the situation. Loudin knew that there was something special about the boy. He also knew that the boy had no idea that he was special. Loudin was trying to help the lad see the complexity of the situation. Mikahl, most of the time, seemed oblivious.
“Nah, nah,” Mikahl finally said, more to himself than to his companion. He turned to Loudin. “Let’s go on down and see what he’s about. Maybe
he
isn’t lost.”
“Bah!” Loudin cursed through his tired grin. “I’m not lost, blast you!”
Lord Gregory, after seeing that they were going to continue coming his way, sat back into his saddle, and hurried his horse down the slope. He wasn’t satisfied to wait for them at the bottom of the valley. Their pace, hindered by the big, long object that their pack horses were carrying, was so slow that he couldn’t stand the wait. He met them a quarter of the way up the slope they were descending, in a semi open area, which was spattered with young pine trees, old oaks, elms and sycamores.
“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 to 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.