The Long Journey Home (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 8) (18 page)

As Mikahl followed the scurrying servant through the castle’s myriad of torch-lit hallways, it became clear they weren’t going to the council chamber, or the throne room, or even back to the dining hall. The ancient castle was a monstrosity of towers, hallways, apartments, and gardens, all added one on top of the other. Mikahl was born in the servants’ wing almost twenty years ago. He spent his entire youth running the castle’s halls and corridors, but he still hadn’t managed to see it all. The fourth flight of stairs they climbed told him exactly where they were going, though. They were
going to the king’s personal bed chamber. Mikahl had visited the Royal Apartment only once since becoming the king’s squire.

As they topped the stairs and turned from the landing to face the Royal Apartment’s large oak double doors, Lord Alvin Gregory came out. He was extremely pale, and the look of sadness on his face sent a chill through Mikahl’s blood.

Lord Gregory was the king’s good friend and most trusted adviser. He was also the current Lord of Lake Bottom Stronghold and was known across the entire realm as the Lion Lord, or Lord Lion. This was because he fought with great courage, pride, and skill. He was the epitome of bravery and a famous Summer’s Day brawling champion, but he looked nothing like that fierce and brave champion at the moment. His normally bright green eyes were haunted, and his expression was dark and grave.

Mikahl was Lord Gregory’s squire for three years prior to becoming the king’s squire. Lord Gregory taught him the proper etiquette, customs, and everything else he needed to know to serve at King Balton’s side. The days Mikahl spent at Lake Bottom learning from the Lion Lord were days he cherished deeply. The man was his mentor and his friend, and he could plainly tell something horrible was afoot.

Lord Gregory walked up to Mikahl and touched him on the cheek. He looked at the young squire long and hard, then forced a smile. He gave Mikahl a nod that seemed to be full of equal partsrespect and regret, then vanished down the stairwell without a word. Mikahl watched the empty air at the top of the landing long after Lord Lion disappeared. The next thing he knew, the servant was pulling him by the sleeve toward the king’s chambers.

The apartment was hot and silent. A dozen candles and a dim flickering lantern barely illuminated the beautifully furnished room. Mikahl expected to see the king sitting in one of his high-backed chairs or on one of the plush divans, but he was in his bed under piles of thick covers.

“Ah, Mikahl,” the king said weakly. A tired smile spread across his slick, gray face. Mikahl almost didn’t recognize this man as his king. Balton Collum looked so near to death that it made Mikahl’s head spin.

A sharp glance from the king sent the servants and the black-robed priest who was attending him quickly out the door. As soon as they were alone, King Balton motioned for Mikahl to come sit at the edge of the bed.

“We haven’t time to parley, Mik,” the old man rasped. “The poison has almost run its course.”

“Poison?” Mikahl was aghast. Who would do such a thing? The king was loved and respected by all. Mikahl was shocked speechless as he slid off the edge of the bed and knelt before the man who was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. He wondered how long the King knew he was poisoned? King Balton seemed a little too accepting of the situation. Was that what all the secrecy was about? Was he dying? The look in King Balton’s eyes said so, but to Mikahl it didn’t make any sense.

“Go to the temple by the north road gate,” King Balton whispered. “Father Petri has something for you to take with you on your journey. Take what he gives you deep into the Giant Mountains. A giant named Borg will find you and lead you to his King.”

As if saying all of that had leeched the life from the poisoned old man, his head lulled to the side. For a long while all that moved were his eyeballs and his heaving chest.

Mikahl wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

“Borg?” he asked. Who in all the hells is Borg?

“—esss. He is the Southern Guardian,” the dying king rasped almost inaudibly. “Go deep into the Giant Mountains, Mik. He will find you and lead you. Deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants.”

Unable to comprehend anything other than the fact his king was dying before his eyes, Mikahl ran to the door and ushered in the priest and the servants who were attending him before.

He stood there, watching in horror. One of the servants helped King Balton drink from a cup, while the priest started saying a prayer that Mikahl remembered all too well from his mother’s funeral a few years past.

Suddenly, the king’s arm shot up and he pointed directly at the door. Wide, white eyes full of authority and love locked onto Mikahl’s. The king was ordering him to go. After wiping the tears from his face, he
went and did his best not to look back. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Ruddy, the Stable Master, mumbled something angrily at Mikahl as he reentered the stalls. The man was busy readying two other horses for departure. One was already saddled and the other was waiting patiently for the half-drunken stableman. It was far too late for a jaunt through the woods. Mikahl recognized one of the horses as belonging to Lord Brach and that made him worry.

Lord Brach, the lord of Westland’s northern territories, was Prince Glendar’s constant companion. Lord Brach and that creepy, bald-headed wizard, Pael, never seemed to leave the side of the heir to the Westland throne. Lord Boot-licker, King Balton had often called Brach in private, because the man agreed to everything that Prince Glendar or the wizard suggested. Mikahl was far from a nobleman and he didn’t meddle in the games they played, but he knew Prince Glendar was about to assume the throne now, and the rotten fool hadn’t been in his father’s favor for many years. Prince Glendar would gain the most from King Balton’s death. In Mikahl’s eyes, Prince Glendar or one of his men was most likely the murderer. Why else would they be preparing to ride at this time of the night?

Mikahl suddenly realized the very same thing would be said of his departure. As King Balton’s personal squire, he had enough access to have easily slipped him some poison. He would be a suspect, but Lord Gregory and his wife, Lady Trella, would vouch for his integrity. Everyone close to King Balton knew Mikahl loved and respected his king dearly. The problem was that soon-to-be King Glendar didn’t like Lord Gregory, nor did he know his own father’s heart very well. If Glendar had a part in his own father’s murder, then Mikahl could easily end up being the scapegoat. It didn’t matter at the moment though; his king had given him orders from the deathbed. He would find this giant named Borg and deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants, or he would die trying to do so.

Mikahl didn’t want Lord Brach or his men following him. He had to find a way to slow them down. He walked over to where Ruddy was
working and tapped the unsuspecting man on the shoulder. As the Stable Master turned, Mikahl slugged him heavily across the jaw. Ruddy fell into a heap on the stable’s dirty floor. Mikahl then led the two other horses to the running pen behind the stable. He sent them galloping off into the darkness with a sharp slap on their rumps.

Wasting no time in preparing for his own departure, he mounted his horse, Windfoot, and led his packhorse out the unattended gate that opened onto the cobbled streets of the inner city. He did exactly as King Balton instructed him to do, and went straight to the chapel.

Father Petri was expecting him. The priest seemed both sad and nervous as he led Mikahl and both of his horses up the entry steps and into the chapel.

The chapel’s vaulted ceiling was high overhead and row after row of empty wooden pews spread out to each side. Sitting on a horse whose clomping hoof beats echoed loudly and deeply into the huge and otherwise empty chamber, Mikahl felt very out of place. As they made their way down the center aisle toward the altar, the gods and goddesses all seemed to be scowling down at him from their permanent places in the colored glass along the higher reaches of the walls. One of the horses whinnied nervously and the ghastly sound sent a chill snaking up Mikahl’s back.

“Come, Mikahl,” the priest said. He took the reins of the packhorse from Mikahl and led them out of the worship hall, down a long corridor, through several arched doorways, then into a large, nearly empty room at the back of the church. Mikahl had never seen this room before and it shocked him. It was not the sort of room he would have ever expected to find in a hall of worship. One entire wall was a huge, steel-banded door that resembled a gate. Two of the other three walls were covered with pegs. Hanging from the pegs were hundreds of weapons: swords, crossbows, long bows and pikes as well as shields, helmets, and miscellaneous pieces of chain and plate armor.

“It’s a secret way out of the castle for the king in the event of a siege.” Father Petri answered the question in Mikahl’s mind. “You follow the briar path to the right, along the wall, until you come to the discharge
drains. Then follow the smelly stream away from the castle until you are well into the Northwood. Stay away from the city. People are about in Castleview even in the late hours. If you have to, stay in the woods until you reach Crossington. Once you are that far north, you should be safe to go wherever the king has told you to go.”

Mikahl hoped to gain some insight from Father Petri as to whom Borg was and where exactly he was supposed to go, but the priest’s last statement indicated he was unaware of Mikahl’s destination. Mikahl had at least a dozen questions he wanted to ask, but he held his tongue. He did ask the one question that couldn’t wait.

“King Balton said you had something for me. What?” This was all too much for Mikahl to understand, so he tried not to think about it. He knew what he had been told to do. It wasn’t his place to question it.

Father Petri gave a short nod, reached into his robes, and produced an ornate leather scroll case.

“This is the message for you to deliver.” He bent down, lifting something heavy from the floor, and offered it up to Mikahl. It was a long, black leather sleeve, such as might be used to protect a prized longbow or an expensive two-piece staff. Mikahl carefully secured the scroll case in his saddlebag and took the item.

He knew what it was the moment he felt the weight of it in his hands. The consequences of having it came flooding into his brain and he almost dropped it in fear. He had to search deeply in his heart for courage. It was Ironspike, King Balton’s notorious sword. He knew because he had polished it a thousand times as part of his duty as the king’s squire. He had seen firsthand the wealth of gold and jewels inlaid into the leather-wrapped hilt and cross guard. He had seen the covetous looks of those who longed to possess it, and he had seen the fear it could inspire. He had watched the magical blade glow red hot as it clipped Lord Clyle’s insolent head from his shoulders, and he remembered vividly seeing King Balton dispatch at least a dozen of the feral half-Breed giants with it during the Battle of Coldfrost. Its actual weight was slight compared to his old iron sword, but holding it now made Mikahl want to crumble.

“You are not to use it, unless it is to preserve your life, or to maintain possession of the blade.” The priest softened his serious look. “But always remember your life is more important than the sword.”

Mikahl looked at the priest with furrowed brows. This was the deadliest of burdens for him to carry and he knew it.

“To use it would attract men to me like carrion to a carcass,” he said. “How am I to?”

“We!” Father Petri snapped, raising a hand to halt Mikahl’s protests. His voice was harsh and the man looked distressed to say the least.

“We do not have to understand the tasks we are given, Squire.”

The use of Mikahl’s meager title, and the reference it implied as to the origin of his orders, permeated the priest’s words.

“We have to do as we are told, Mikahl, and do it the best we can.”

Mikahl swallowed hard. He felt the need to be on his way. Prince Glendar, soon-to-be King Glendar, would most likely want Ironspike immediately. Once the sword was found to be missing, Glendar’s cronies and his wizard, Pael, would be after it. Mikahl could see it now: a dozen lords and all of their men would be hunting him, a huge price on his head; bounty men and trackers, coming from all reaches of the realm to try to claim the reward King Glendar would surely offer. Suddenly, the Giant Mountains seemed like the safest place for him to be, and with each passing moment, he found more and more reasons to reach them quickly.

After a brief goodbye, Father Petri cranked open the great door and Mikahl eased out into the night. A glance up at Lakeside Castle put a twist in Mikahl’s guts and a lump in his throat. He lived there most of his life. His mother had been a kitchen hand, and he himself had been in the service of the kingdom in one way or another since he could walk. At first, he had been a message runner and a candle-snuffer. Then, he was a stable hand, and even a scribe’s aide for a while. As he grew older, he began training with the soldiers, and had excelled with his skills on the weapons yard to the point of notice. Lord Gregory took him on as a squire, and he spent almost three years down at Lake Bottom Stronghold learning the proper ways to behave while in the service of royalty. Other
than the not so distant traveling he’d done with the king as his squire, he had never been away from this place. Now, he was leaving his home, and he doubted he would ever be able to return.

Because his mother died, he didn’t have any real family here, but both King Balton and Lord Gregory had become father figures to him. He had never known who his real father was, but he had never really been without guidance until now. Now, he was alone.

Knowing his possession of Ironspike was a secret known only to a dying king and his loyal priest, Mikahl realized he would soon be branded a thief of the highest order, or worse, a murderer. Ruddy would tell everyone about Mikahl’s late night preparations. Being the king’s squire meant he would have had full access to the king’s private armory. Not only would he be blamed for poisoning the king, he would most likely be blamed for taking the sword as well. These things were forgotten, though, as he looked back at his home. He was on a journey to meet a giant he didn’t know, with an entire kingdom soon to be on his tail. He couldn’t imagine being any more alone than he felt at that moment. He took a deep breath and sighed at the sheer enormity of it all.