He had been forced to lead his horse, Windfoot, the last few days. How the others walked up and down the treacherous slopes was beyond him. His legs were sore, he was tired, and confused, but as he shivered again, he decided that the worst thing about all of it was that he was so blasted cold.
Loudin had been leading the two horses that carried his precious bark lizard skin. In the valleys, he had ridden the lead horse awkward style, just like they had back in the Reyhall Forest, but it was far too treacherous on this narrow pass for either of them to ride. More than once, the lizard skin had almost caused disaster. They had to untie the roll so that the horses could make a few tight turns, once around a washout, and again where the pass turned, hugging the mountain. The skin had grown stiff in the cold, and wouldn’t give at all. It was just like hauling a log.
Once, the front horse was startled by a chunk of falling ice. It tried to bolt forward, nearly yanking the rear horse off its hooves. This in turn, yanked the front horse backwards. Both horses, the bark lizard skin, along with Loudin as he grabbed after his prize, almost went over the edge.
After that, the bulky skin came off of the horses at even the slightest sign of trouble. Mikahl was certain that Loudin expected a small fortune for the skin. Only great wealth, or the prospect of it, would give a man like Loudin cause to make such a miserable and treacherous journey as this one was turning out to be.
The other two, Mikahl found, often left him shaking his head in wonder. They had been on foot the entire way, and had jogged for days alongside the horses in the lower passes and valleys. Not once had they slowed the group. Not once had they complained or asked for rest. Even though the elf’s wounded eye was obviously troubling him, he never voiced his discomfort to his companions. And Hyden Hawk, to Mikahl’s great surprise and respect, hadn’t even been winded after jogging uphill most of a day. Neither of them seemed affected by the sharp bite of the wind, or the slick icy terrain.
Hyden and Vaegon took turns leading the group. The elf led more often than not. When the wild looking, bone-thin creature wasn’t out front, he seemed troubled. It was more than just the loss of the eye, or getting used to the leather patch he now wore over the ugly hole. The elf seemed to be hurting on a deeper level.
Mikahl wasn’t exactly sure what Vaegon’s problem was, until one night when the golden haired elf ceremoniously gave Hyden his longbow at the campfire. He saw the problem a little more clearly then. Vaegon had lost his aiming eye, probably the worst injury an archer could sustain.
“Hyden Hawk,” Vaegon always called Hyden ‘Hyden Hawk,’ whether he was speaking to him or about him.
Hyden took the bow with a silent nod of understanding, and had since treated it with nothing less than reverence. This obviously pleased the elf, but not enough to shatter his bouts of depression.
Hyden Hawk, it seemed to Mikahl, was part animal, part wizard. He could see through the eyes of his hawkling friend, Talon, and he could hunt up a meal in the middle of an icy rain storm, as if it were a clear spring day. He spoke with his bird, as if it were just another traveler among them. He obviously had a lot on his mind, but he made for excellent company at the fire. He loved to laugh, and he loved to hear a tale, almost as much as Loudin loved to tell them.
Loudin, Mikahl learned, was more than just a trapper and hunter. He had once been a mariner of sorts, and he often spent the evening stretching a story about the strange and distant lands he had visited in his adventures. He had been to all of the seven kingdoms, including the Isle of Salazar. He had even been across the Great Western Sea to the land of Harthgar. He told them of the strange customs the people of the outer islands had, and of the great shipbuilding yards on the big island of Salazar. He told them of the slave-fighting pits in Dakahn, of the exotic women one could purchase there. He even told them all about the Seaward custom of skin marking. He hinted at the vast and powerful magics that the Witch Queen of Highwander had at her disposal, and the strange little men called dwarves, that were rumored to stay in the city of Xwarda at her magnificent palace.
Hyden asked many questions, and was disappointed to learn that these later tales were more from secondhand sources. Loudin had never been to Xwarda himself, but he had been to Highwander’s Port cities of Weir, Old Port, and New Port. Loudin had seen enough magic on those docks to know that a lot of what he had heard about Xwarda wasn’t exaggerated.
Mikahl listened intently, and wondered at it all. He had heard a lot of things while serving as King Balton’s Squire, but he chose to keep his knowledge and speculation to himself. He let Hyden do all the questioning, and gained even more respect for the mountain clansman. Not only was he in supreme physical condition, his mind was sharp and his queries were well chosen.
Thinking about chumming around a campfire, reminded Mikahl of just how cold he was at the moment. He was miserable, and felt that if he ever stopped shivering, he would freeze into a solid statue of ice. He hated the cold, and he was glad that this was the last high altitude pass they would have to traverse for awhile.
According to Hyden and the elf, a rich, warm valley lay on the other side of this ridge. They would hopefully be able to lay up there and wait for the giants to come to them. Both Loudin and Hyden Hawk agreed that it was a strange thing that Borg had not already found and questioned them. They said that no group of men ever made it this far into the Giant Mountains without the Southern Guardian greeting them.
It came as a welcome relief to all of them that they would be making camp soon. Hyden explained over the icy wind, that Talon had spied a cave, which looked big enough to hold all four of them, and the three horses as well. It was ideal, because from there, they could reach the protection of the valley early the next day. A good, warm fire, and a long needed rest, would benefit them all. Six days of rough up and down mountain traveling, had taken its toll on even the hardiest of them.
They reached the cavern with plenty of light left in the sky, so while Loudin tended to the horses, and Vaegon helped Mikahl scrounge up enough wood to start a fire, Hyden and Talon went off to hunt up some fresh meat. Mikahl ended up chattering, pacing, and rubbing his hands together, trying to thaw out enough to be of assistance, but by the time he had quit shivering, a fire was burning, and the horses were unsaddled, and eating oats from muzzle bags.
The cavern was featureless: rocky walls, a rocky ceiling, and an uneven rocky floor. Remnants of past travelers littered the place: most of a torn jerkin; a good length of poorly made braided rope; a single well-worn boot, among other things. Luckily, there were a few sticks of firewood. Someone had once used soot to draw a scene of stick men and horned creatures on one wall, but it was faded. There were also a few strange symbols, daubed in something more permanent, possibly blood, by the entryway. To Mikahl, it was just a cave; a cave that was getting warmer and more comfortable by the moment.
“You’d think that you were the one from way down south,” Loudin joked at Mikahl. “I know it snows and freezes around that castle you were raised in. I’ve been there. You act like you’ve never been cold before.”
“You’ve said the exact same thing three nights in a row now.” Mikahl shook his head. “Are you getting forgetful in your old age?”
Loudin laughed at this, and sat down by the blaze Vaegon had created.
“What about you elf? Does it get this cold in the Evermore Forest?”
Vaegon put down the small leather-bound journal, which he sometimes wrote in while the others carried on around the fire. He tilted his head thoughtfully, as if he were remembering something fond.
“Not so cold in the Evermore, no,” he answered. “But there are places that my people travel, places we visit that have a climate very similar to this one.”
He pointed at the old cavern’s roof. It had been blackened by hundreds upon hundreds of campfires.
“…places far less hospitable than this cozy cavern.” The last was said with a slight grin at Loudin.
“Bah!” Mikahl blurted. He finally felt warm enough to open up the front of his fur coat. He eventually stood and removed it. “I can’t imagine any place less hospitable than these mountains.” He plopped down on a rock near Loudin, with a long, loud groan.
“You dare call me old, boy?” Loudin laughed. “You’ll never make half my age if you’re in such bad shape now. That sounded awful.”
Mikahl gave him a severe stare, but couldn’t keep his mouth from curving upward at its corners.
“Bah!” he said again, with a roll of his eyes.
“These are but foothills, compared to the heart of this mountain range,” Vaegon told Mikahl. “There are places so high above the sea, that even the valleys stay frozen year round; places that none of us could survive an hour in, much less a whole day.”
“Well, the giants can keep those places for themselves. I’ve already gotten my fill of the Highlands. If I didn’t have to be here, I would’ve left long ago.”
“Aye, we shouldn’t have to be up here this far anyway,” said Loudin. “Old Borg is either caught up in something nasty, or he’s grown lax and forgetful of his duties. I’m fairly certain that his old mind hasn’t begun to slip just yet. I imagine that somewhere along the border, something has attracted him, and is keeping him occupied for the moment.”
Loudin shrugged off his fur coat and piled it into a cushion, and then leaned back into it.
“The two other times I came up here, he met us after the first big pass. No one travels long in these mountains without his knowledge, I assure you.”
“You said that the last four nights as well. How can one giant guard the whole of the giant kingdom?” Mikahl was skeptical. He had asked Hyden the same question one day, but all he had gotten for an answer was a shrug and, “I wish I knew.”
“He doesn’t,” Loudin answered, with a sly glance at the elf. “He just guards the southern border.” They chuckled at the frustrated expression that came across Mikahl’s face.
“Bah!” Mikahl growled. “You know what I meant old man.” Then to Vaegon, who was struggling to bite back his laugh. “You too Cyclops. I want to know. How does one giant guard thousands of miles of foothills all by himself?”
Whether stunned by the well-placed, but good natured insult to his one eyed condition, or maybe just pondering his response, Vaegon paused with raised brows for a moment before responding. The elf looked angry, and possibly a bit wounded by the jab. Seconds turned into hours as the tense moment passed. Finally, as he started to reply, a grin crept across the elf’s face.
“Well Mikahl, he’s only guarding his kingdom from mere humans. How many more giants do you think he would really need?”
Mikahl didn’t realize, at first, that the elf had mocked his humanity. His mind had gone back to a memory of the bloody ordeal at Coldfrost.
He, King Balton, and Westland’s Northern Muster had battled the giants there for most of a winter a few years back. Mikahl had been told that those weren’t full blooded giants. They were a wild and primitive cross-breed, driven by an animalistic instinct. They had been eight and nine feet tall, overly hairy, with slightly snouted faces, and mouths full of sharp carnivorous teeth. They fought like they were demon-possessed.
He had just been promoted to King’s Squire then, and hadn’t earned King Balton’s full trust yet, so he hadn’t been privy to why the battle was being waged. He hadn’t been allowed to fight, even though he was one of the better swordsmen on the field, but he had seen the carnage firsthand. He had also seen the power of Ironspike. King Balton had taken quite a few giants down with it, before using it to create the magical boundary that still imprisons those Breed Giants to this day. Mikahl couldn’t realistically imagine a single giant being able to stand against Ironspike’s might, so it took some time for the joke to register in his mind. When it finally did, he didn’t think it was all that funny, but since he liked the one-eyed elf so much, he faked a laugh.
It became clear to Mikahl then, that neither of these two would-be jesters, knew exactly how the giant named Borg did his duty.
In the silence that followed, Mikahl let his mind wander further. Of course, his thoughts went to the sword and Lord Gregory’s unfathomable proclamation. Mikahl had spent a lot of time dwelling on the possibility that he was actually King Balton’s bastard. He had come to the conclusion that it was the truth. The King had gone to great lengths to train and educate him in everything, from table manners and mathematics, to military tactics and weapons play. He had been taught the qualifications and proper duties of all of Westland’s lords and nobles. He knew, from Page to Prince, what every titled person in Balton’s kingdom was supposed to be doing for the throne.
The only exception was Pael. He had never been told what the Royal Wizard’s true duties were, and when he had asked, his instructors always avoided the subject. King Balton had made sure that he understood his numbers, and the history of the land, and that he read and understood certain books out of the castle’s library. King Balton had often inquired about the contents of a book while they rode out to a stronghold, or were on a hunt.
Mikahl remembered fondly the trips to various lords’ and nobles’ holds for weddings, funerals, and other functions. King Balton never rode in the Royal Carriage. That was where Prince Glendar and the wizard always traveled. King Balton rode his horse, Firewind, Windfoot’s sire, and everywhere he went, he kept Mikahl close at hand.
There were days that he and King Balton rode surrounded by guardsmen, who kept their distance, so that he and the King could speak quietly, and there were nights where the titles of king, captain, duke and squire somehow got lost in the flames, as flasks of brandy-wine were passed around the campfire.
Looking back, Mikahl could see that he was being trained and tested all along, a lot of the time by King Balton himself. He had been raised by a father who didn’t dare claim him as his son. The idea of that stung, but not so bad that it tainted the memory. Mikahl had faith that King Balton had had good reason for the subterfuge. It was the idea that he was supposed to someday rule Westland that seemed so preposterous to him. Prince Glendar was the King now, and he surely wanted his father’s sword back. He had probably ordered that creepy wizard, Pael, to send that beast after them. Thankfully, the thing had fled. Hopefully it would stay gone.