The Sword And The Dragon (12 page)

Mikahl learned that Loudin had a horse and a camp not too far away. Together, the horses had done most of the hard labor of moving the big beast, while they had used Loudin’s ropes to guide and roll the lizard over. It was no easy task, even with the horses, but they manage to get the creature ready to skin.

Mikahl did his share of the work without complaint, even though he was horribly sore and bruised from his crash landing. His nose was broken and swollen, and black circles were forming under his eyes. He had seen his reflection in the pond water when he had washed away the blood. No one at Summer’s Day would recognize him, unless they were looking for a raccoon.

Mikahl let his mind wander while they worked. He had never been to the Summer’s Day Festival and found himself more than a little excited. King Balton sent a delegation of competitors each year to represent Westland, and Mikahl had listened raptly to the tales they carried back with them. Lord Gregory had once won a fistfight called, “The Brawl,” and had his name engraved into the great spire for the victory. Lord Ellrich had also once won a prize for eating more sausage coils than his competitors, but that feat didn’t warrant getting your name etched into the spire for all to see. Elves were said to come out of their hiding places in the Evermore Forest to win the archery tournament every year, and wizards turned stones into snake-birds, or fruit trees, for coins. Wild men breathed fire, and hawkers sold everything you could imagine. He couldn’t wait to see such things. The prospect of it made it easier to labor through his pains in hopes that they wouldn’t arrive too late to witness them.

They stopped working at sunset. Loudin said there was no use trying to skin the beast by torchlight. Mikahl wanted to retrieve his sword from the creature’s gullet, but decided that it could wait till the morrow. He would also have to find his longbow. He’d thrown it down somewhere in the clearing when he and Windfoot had made their hasty retreat into the trees. He would have searched for it earlier, but he was too embarrassed to admit losing it to the hunter.

They cleaned up in the pond again before they made their way to Loudin’s camp. Loudin said that it would be better to stay away from the clearing for the night. There was no telling what sort of things would come sniffing around the carcass.

“Won’t something try to eat the meat and ruin the hide?” Mikahl asked. Loudin held a branch aside, until Mikahl took it, so that it wouldn’t whip him in the face.

Loudin answered, “The tongue, or what’s left of it, and the eyes maybe; the hide’s too thick.”

While they were washing, Mikahl noticed that Loudin was slick bald, and had large, black tattoos on his scalp and back. This was confirmation of his Seaward heritage. The contrast between skin and ink on the hunter’s back, made it easy for Mikahl to follow him in the darkness.

“The big scavengers –” Loudin was saying, “– the ones that could possibly get a tooth or claw through that thick bark hide, won’t bother.”

Loudin ducked a low hanging branch and turned sharply to make sure that Mikahl didn’t bash into it. He waited until he saw Mikahl duck, and then he continued. 

“The big’uns will run off the little’ns feeding on the tongue and eyes. They’ll keep the little’ns away till they get their fill. And they won’t bother with the stuff that’s hard to get to. Ah! Here we are. Hold tight Mik, I’ll get the fire going so we can see.”

Loudin did just what he said he would do: he built up a huge fire. Mikahl was glad for it. He got so close to the fire that his battered flesh was nearly singed by the heat, and he knew he would feel better for it later. After Loudin sat down, Mikahl studied him. He gave the hunter a big piece of cheese and some bread that he’d retrieved from his pack saddle. Loudin was roasting some of the lizard’s tongue meat on a stick, but he took the offer with a nod of thanks.

Mikahl could see that the hunter was older than he had first guessed. The lines that formed at the corners of the man’s eyes when he smiled were deep and worn in. His body was well muscled and darkened from the sun. Mikahl figured that he was far more than just a trapper. The tattoos were the strangest thing about him though. He was tiger striped horizontally, from his belt line, up his back, and onto his head. He had big stripes that wrapped around his arms and the tender flesh at his sides. The highest stripe wrapped around his neck, just under his ears, and came to crisp points along either side of his jaw. From between his eyebrows, a point gradually widened into a two finger wide stripe that ran back over his forehead and melded with the rest. The effect was such, that if you looked at him from the front, you could only see the hint of the mohawk tattoo on his head. But from behind, he looked quite animalistic.

Mikahl wanted to ask him about the tattoos but was afraid to offend the man. He knew from his studies, that warriors from Seaward, and some sailors from the Isle of Salazar marked themselves in such ways, but he wasn’t sure why.

Loudin gave him a piece of the tongue meat when it was done and put his own piece on the bread Mikahl had given him. 

“That there piece of meat would fetch a whole piece of gold in some places I’ve been.” Loudin took a bite, and closed his eyes, savoring the rich flavor. 

“My people say it’s bad fortune to eat meat from a scaled beast, but –”  He took another bite. 

The expression on his face left no need for him to finish the statement. The look was that of pure bliss.

Mikahl tried to sniff the meat before he took a bite, but his nose was clogged with blood. He finally braved a taste, and was rewarded with a thick, powerful flavor that was quite delicious.

Loudin grinned. After he swallowed his bite, he continued speaking.

“The giant folk will give a small fortune for such a delicacy. These bark-skinned lizards don’t live up in the frigid mountains. I know a giant that would have filled my fist full of gold for the piece of meat you’re eating now. I mean filled it!”

“Giant? Did you just say that you know some of the giants?” Mikahl asked the question, just to be sure he had heard correctly. He had.

The black obsidian spike of Summer’s Day Spire thrust up out of the Northern Leif Greyn Valley and pointed toward the heavens. It was hundreds of feet tall, yet only twenty eight paces wide at each of the three faces formed by its base. What purpose it was supposed to serve, and who had built it, no one, be they human, giant, or elf could say. It had been standing before history was written. The giants called it
the Monolith
. The elves simply called it
the Spire
. Tens of thousands of years’ worth of stories and lore, from all the races of the realm, spoke of it. Religions had risen and fallen over it, but no one had even come close to guessing what it was about. Even the oldest of the elves, who had heard the tales of their forbearers firsthand, had no clue as to why the thing existed, or who might have put it there. 

The towering, perfectly formed, structure was there though, and around its base, in the Valley of Life, the people of the realm were congregating, as they did every year around the first day of summer, in the spirit of peace, fellowship, mercantilism, and competition.

Three crowded lanes led away from the base of the Spire. One extended upriver, north towards the foothills. Another ran downstream, keeping parallel to the river almost all the way to Wildermont. The third road led eastward, away from the river altogether. Between the Spire and the river, was an area known simply as
the Grounds
. This was where the contests took place. Sections were marked off for archery lanes, fighting circles, muddy tug of war pits, and other similar competition areas. An open field, filled with quickly assembled wooden bleachers built around it, held the hammer throwers at the moment. Once, this event had been dominated by the dwarves, but a few hundred years ago, the little folk had gone underground and not returned. Only a few handfuls of dwarves could be found in the realm these days, and they would be in the kingdom of Highwander, in the city called Xwarda, where Willa the Witch Queen held rule over the people with her potent magic and her Blacksword Warriors.

The three roads, or “Ways,” as they were commonly called, were lined with wagon carts, tents, and makeshift table stands. People from all over the realm were selling their wares and services: armor made from boiled and painted leather; the pungent frog weed from the kingdom of Dakahn; farming implements, leather goods, and riding gear, along with the finest horses in the land, from the Kingdom of Valleya. Barrel kegs, sailcloth, and rope, and just about anything else to do with the shipping trade, was sold by the merchants from the Isle of Salazar, and in fierce competition with the Seaward vendors who dealt in similar merchandise. There were fantastical potions, healing powders, magical spell scrolls, venomous curses, and personal charms of every fashion to be had at Summer’s Day.

One of the larger pavilions had an old silver haired man standing out in front of it. He was wearing wizard’s robes and claiming that the jeweled items he sold were powerfully enchanted and be-spelled. Daggers that never dulled, rings that made the wearer more attractive, medallions that would keep you from harm, and a longbow that would never miss its target, if you could find the strength to draw it, were just a few of the items he was trying to sell. He swore he could make anything you could imagine, and every so often, he would make a dove go flapping away from his empty hand in a puff of smoke, or pull a flower out from behind a passing maiden’s ear. The people who saw these feats either scurried off with terrified looks on their faces, or hurried inside to spend their coin.

Gerard was intrigued by the man, but didn’t scurry away, or hurry inside to spend his money. He chose to watch the wizard from across the way. He bought a piece of roasted meat that had been skewered on a wooden stick, and a mug of ale to wash it down with, then leaned back against the food sellers cart, and watched the old man draw in his next group of potential customers. 

Gerard was transfixed by the man’s commanding tone and strange accent, but he wasn’t lured by the charlatan tricks that seemed to amaze the rest of the onlookers. The giantess, Berda, had told many a tale that included men like this one, and Gerard knew that feats such as these were a trick of the eye and not real magic. What kept Gerard watching, was the fact that when he had tried to use his ring’s power to catch the wizard out in his act, the old man only glanced at him without so much as a stutter. Like his older brother Hyden, the old man was somehow unaffected by the ring. Gerard might have thought that the ring had lost its magic had he not used it earlier in the afternoon to persuade a castellan from Wildermont to pay him twice the asking price for his last two hawkling eggs. The other six of his eggs, he had sold with Hyden’s six to a strange, little black-eyed woman who had wanted an even dozen. Gerard’s pouch was full, and he could have easily afforded any of the old silver-haired wizard’s wares, but he wasn’t interested in the fancy trinkets, only in the man selling them.

The woman who had bought the eggs from him and Hyden had given Gerard the creeps. She had been acting and speaking more like a distracted boy, or a skittish animal, and her eyes had been as black as the Spire itself. She had paid well though, and without argument. Actually, she had slapped the heavy pouch full of golden lions down on the table stand the Skylers were using for a countertop, and demanded the dozen hawkling eggs. Harrap, Gerard’s father, had started to question her, as he always did the strange buyers. He seemed to want to know everything about them, their home kingdom, what type of business they were associated with, and the reason they wanted to buy the eggs. Most people wanted to incubate the birds to carry messages over long distances. Others, wanted the yolk for its healing properties.  This woman had grown defensive, and said that an old woman’s business is her own. After waving a hand around, and chanting a word that caused Gerard and his father both to forget that she had even been there, she had taken her eggs and disappeared. The memory of her came back soon after, and Harrap had grown angry. His cursing and irritable manner had driven Gerard out of the selling booth just as soon as he’d sold his other two eggs. 

Hyden was in the middle of a preliminary round for the archery competition. Gerard used that as his ruse to go. Hyden would get to the finals, Gerard knew, so instead of going to watch his brother, he went off into the Ways exploring, and ended up here, in front of the silver-haired wizard’s pavilion. It was becoming obvious that the goods weren’t truly enchanted, so he was starting to lose interest.

Disappointed, he stepped out into the flow of the passing crowd. He was curious to see what else he could find. He hadn’t taken ten steps when a woman’s arm hooked around his familiarly. The lady didn’t pull him into the gap between the two tents they were passing as he half expected her to do. Instead, she just strode along beside him as if they were long acquainted companions out enjoying the festival together.

He could smell the sweet flowery scent of her, and from the corner of his eye he could tell she was attractive. He turned to look at her curiously and was pleasantly surprised.

She was close to his height, and other than the long, straight raven black mane that hid most of her face from him, all he could see was the ample amount of cleavage that her studded leather vest revealed. Once he got past that, he saw that her entire body was beautifully curvy, and clad in tight fitting protective leather. He also noticed that she wore a long sword at her hip.

“You’re one of the hawkling sellers aren’t you?” she asked, as they walked along.

Gerard knew right away, by the way she spoke, that her accent was Dakaneese. He had heard that the Dakaneese were dangerous and violent people. “Sell swords, and slavers, mercenaries, and gamblers all!” Berda had said. Dakahn was one of the two great human kingdoms that bordered on the southern marshlands. They had to constantly defend themselves from wild swamp creatures and the like, and since the kingdom’s capital city, O’Dakahn, was located at the mouth of the Leif Greyn River, it was a horribly over-populated hub of river, land, and sea trade. This, of course, accounted for all the unsavory characters that were drawn there, and the bad reputations that followed them.