The Sword And The Dragon (21 page)

Harrap and Uncle Condlin shouldered their way into the huddle forcefully. Talon was nearly crushed, and went hop flapping into Hyden’s lap for protection. Little Condlin was staring with a wide eyed, terror-filled grin, and looking up at the elf that had just magicked him.

“Thank you,” he managed to get out of his mouth, before his worried father scooped him up into his arms. Tears of loving relief streamed down the Elder’s face as he wordlessly toted his boy back to his mother. Seeing that his son was also all right, Harrap went back with the others. His terrified people needed him more than Hyden did at the moment.

Some of the Elders of the Skyler Clan began negotiating with a knot of Redwolf soldiers. The Elders wanted the clansmen to be protected, and their possessions guarded, while they gathered up their belongings and prepared to depart the festival. They also wanted a safe passage guaranteed, at least until they were in the foothills of the Giant Mountains. The guards wanted to comply. The amount of gold the clan offered them was more than sufficient, but the Wildermont soldiers were far too honorable to shirk their duty for handfuls of coin. They did, however, send a man to find a certain commander, who was greedy enough to agree to such a quasi noble and profitable undertaking. The Skyler Clan was asked to wait there, where there was little fighting going on, while a few of the Redwolf guardsmen went with some of the Elders to protect the clan tents and other belongings. The rest of them huddled together on the archery range amid the Wildermont soldiers while around them chaos ran rampant.

Just a few hundred paces away, a sizable battle raged on. Hyden watched as swords, fists, daggers, and even farm tools were used openly to kill and maim. Men were dying right there, in the rich, green grass of the sacred Leif Greyn Valley. A lot of the kingdom’s folk were involved. Hyden saw the Golden Lion of Westland flying from a flagstaff amid one group of engaged fighters. A small band of Valleyan horsemen displayed their kingdom’s shield and stallion on their breasts proudly, as they tore into the Westland flank. An organized troop of Seawardsmen, with the rising sun emblem of their kingdom painted on their shields, was tangled in with the rest of the mob. The bulk of the combatants were common folk though. They were fighting right there among the trained soldiers, and dying in droves. Hyden realized then, that he didn’t see the Blacksword banner of Highwander anywhere anymore. He scanned the area around the tournament field, paying special attention to where those first arrows had been fired from. He didn’t see the banner anywhere. They had started all of this, or at least tendered the spark to flame. Now, they were nowhere to be seen. Hyden realized that other than the one time out on the Ways that the two Highwander men had harassed him, he hadn’t seen any people from that kingdom at the festival at all. He searched his mind for another instance where he had seen the Highwander men, but could only come up with the large encampment his Clan had spotted south of the festival grounds on their way here from the egg harvest. 

It occurred to him then, that Shaella’s group had been camped very near that area. She was the one who had sent the two rude Blacksword soldiers scurrying away in the Ways. Had Willa the Witch Queen started this? He asked himself. Or was it something else? Hyden knew very little about kingdom folk and their strange ways, but he knew that spilling all of this blood on the sacred ground of the Leif Greyn Valley was a violation of some ancient pact that all the races of the realm had made with the dragons. At least that’s what Berda the Giantess had told him once.

“I am Vaegon,” The elven archer said. The elf put his hand out and placed his palm over Hyden’s heart. 

Hyden recalled that the gesture was the elven equivalent of the kingdom men’s handshake, and mimicked the action.

“Hyden,” he said, as he held out his hand. He was confused by the events taking place around him. The elf’s strange eyes, yellow, where a human’s were white, unnerved him as well. He had never looked into the eyes of an elf from this close before, and was surprised by how wild they looked.

“Hyden Hawk!” Vaegon corrected, with what might have been a smile on his fair face.

One of the other elves gently picked up Talon and offered him to Hyden.

“This is my father Drent.” Vaegon nodded towards the elf that was holding the hawkling. “And this is my brother Deiter.” He indicated the third elf.

Hyden placed Talon on his shoulder, and then made the stiff arm greeting gesture to the other two elves in turn. He noticed that Drent, the father, looked as young as either of his sons. The only discernible difference Hyden could see, was that his hair was a silvery blue, the color of deep ice, where the two brothers’ hair had a tint of gold to the silver. All three of the elves were a hand span shorter than Hyden was, and though they were a bit on the thin side, they moved with an obvious strength and grace.

“I am honor bound to you now Hyden Hawk,” Vaegon said, as if the words tasted slightly bitter. “You saved my life. I am at your service.”

Behind Vaegon, Drent nodded proudly at his son’s acceptance of his honor debt. Deiter’s expression showed plainly his disgust at the idea, and Hyden couldn’t meet the elf’s frightening narrowed gaze.

Not sure what was happening, Hyden fumbled for his words. “You…Uh…You saved my cousin’s life. You…You owe me nothing.”

“Your cousin wasn’t going to die, Hyden Hawk,” The elf said, matter-of-factly. “I merely quickened his healing, and saved him the pain of having the arrowhead removed with a blade.”

A gurgling scream rose above the surrounding clamor and drew all of their attention. The number of people still fighting near that end of the archery field had decreased dramatically, but only because so many now lay dead, or dying, on the grass. At one end of the battle, a blood soaked man in merchant’s clothes was on his knees. He was clutching what looked like a young girl’s broken body. Another man stumbled aimlessly around the carnage, carrying a severed arm in one hand, and a small dagger in the other. His head and face was covered in blood, and he appeared to be lost. Some of the Redwolf soldiers waded in, braving the smaller numbers of combatants, to try and separate the fighting groups, but the effort seemed futile at best.

“They will not stop until there is no one left to kill,” Vaegon said sadly. Hyden could tell that the elf was speaking about more than just the skirmish before them. He meant that this was only the beginning of something far bigger, and more destructive.

“The arrow that almost killed you, was loosed by men flying the Blacksword of Highwander,” Hyden said. 

He wasn’t sure why it mattered. He just figured that the elf would want to know who had tried to kill him. He noticed then that all the contempt had faded from the elf’s expression. 

“You’re sure of this?” Vaegon asked, without turning his eyes from the fighting.

“I saw them on the rise, there.” Hyden pointed to the place beyond the targets, where he had seen them. He noticed for the first time, several dark plumes of smoke rising up from the Ways beyond.

Vaegon said something to his brother and father in the elven tongue, and then he listened as his father responded. While they spoke, Hyden looked towards his people. It seemed that they, and the three elves, were the only factions in all of Summer’s Day that were not fighting.

“Fare thee well Hyden Hawk,” Drent said, with a slight bow. “I hope we see each other again in better times.”

Dieter didn’t say anything to Hyden. He scowled, as he gave his brother a quick hug. There was no mistaking that the look was for the human that his brother now owed his life to. The two elves wasted no time starting off towards where Hyden had pointed out the original attackers. Vaegon gritted his teeth as he watched them go.

Hyden was about to explain to the elf that his people needed him, that he had to help them gather up their belongings, and make the journey back into the mountains, when the sun was abruptly eclipsed. Shadow enveloped them like a shroud. It was as if night had come in the middle of the afternoon.

Talon leapt from Hyden’s shoulder. At first, it appeared that the little hawkling would flutter straight to the ground, but about halfway down, his wings caught air. A few flaps later, Talon was flying like an arrow towards the target stands. 

Fighting to breathe in the thick cloud of smoke that had blown over them, Hyden searched for the bird. He spotted him perched on one of the targets over fifty feet away, and marveled at the distance the little chick had flown. Thinking the bird had exhausted itself, he strode off to get it. A light breeze dissipated some of the smoke and allowed a bit of sun to find its way to them. A single ray, brighter than the rest, spotlighted Talon. Vaegon, with his keen elven sight, pointed this out to Hyden. The illuminating sunshine held on the hawkling, while all around it, varying degrees of shadow churned and roiled with the breeze. When Hyden and Vaegon were a few paces away from the target, the bird leapt into the air again, and flew even farther away.

Hyden glanced back at his clansmen. His father was holding his mother around the shoulders, comforting her at the edge of the huddle. Hyden was sure that she hadn’t taken Gerard’s departure well, and that his own presence would help ease her worry, especially after she had seen a few hundred people get massacred only a stone’s throw away. His weren’t kingdom folk. They didn’t understand battle on a large scale. War was something Berda talked about in her tales, a thing as vague and incomprehensible as fairy trees, ocean waves, and sea ships. He wanted to go to them. His people needed him, but Talon was leading him away. Deep inside himself, he felt the pull of the hawkling. He knew without a doubt that it was his destiny to follow the bird. The feeling was overwhelming.

Vaegon saw the worried expression on Hyden’s face. He also saw the spirit aura of both Hyden and his familiar. The ability to see such things was part of his elven sight. The spirit aura of the bird, the man, and the elf, were as intertwined as a vine is to the tree that supports it. To Vaegon, the path for all three of them was clear.

“Come,” he urged gently, guiding Hyden towards where Talon had landed. “Your people are protected by the Wolf King’s men. They’re safe enough without you.”

As if Vaegon’s comforting words were the words of the White Goddess herself, Hyden turned towards his destiny and set off after the bird.

Lord Alvin Gregory, the Lion Lord of Westland, was sure that he was in a living hell. No matter how hard he prayed for death, it would not come and take him. Some blasted insect had stung his shoulder, causing it to swell to the size of a melon, and his body was so bruised and broken from his Brawl with the Seaward Monster, that his piss was a bloody red froth. He could only remain conscious for short periods of time, in which, pure madness reigned around him. He found himself waking this time, to shouts, screams, and the sounds of distant ringing steel, but he couldn’t move to look outside his tent. At one point, a soldier with the Blacksword of Highwander on his shield, looked in at him with violent intent, but he had immediately been thrown to the side, and tackled by another soldier. Now the familiar voice of Gowden, one of his captains, was crying out, “TO ME MEN! TO ME!” as if they were on a battlefield somewhere. The Lion Lord tried to yell out and ask what was happening, but his throat was as dry as the bark on last year’s dead fall. He remembered vaguely his father, or was it some other voice?, telling him that there’d been another fight after the Brawl, a fight between some of his men and some of the people from Seaward.

That snotty boy that Duke Fairchild had insisted that they bring along, had been beaten half to death, the voice had added, and one of the timberjacks had been stabbed, in a bad sort of way. Had that been this morning? Or was it two mornings ago? It could’ve been a week ago, for all Lord Gregory could figure. 

He was just about to drift into blackness again, when a leather boot came tearing through his tent’s wall. The leg that was still attached to it, stepped, twisted, and then tore the canvas wide open as it pulled free. Lord Gregory was blinded by the brilliance of the sun. The boot stepped back closer to him, and it became obvious that it was connected to a man who was engaged in serious sword play. The boot lifted then, and came down on his over swollen shoulder in a stomp. A gush of warm, thick pus, that smelled of rot and vomit, erupted from the wound. The harsh daylight in his eyes wasn’t nearly as blinding as the pain that ripped through him like a jagged blade. He tried to scream, but the effort only served to tear his parched throat open. In his mind, he cursed every god and goddess he could think of for leaving him alive to suffer this way.

Gowden’s voice shouted out another command, but it was cut short in a way that left no room to wonder why it had ended so abruptly. A relative silence followed, where all Lord Gregory could hear was a few footfalls coming from close by, and the sound of retreating hooves. He craned his neck to see what he could see, but his shoulder throbbed with the effort. The tattered wall of his tent blocked the view on one side, but on the other, he saw a handful of men fighting in the distance. He couldn’t tell if any of them were his. He squinted up at the sky and prayed for death again. The bright sun was suddenly blocked out as a face appeared, hovering upside down, over his. He hoped that his prayer had been answered, but was disappointed when the person began speaking to him.

“Lord Gregory!” Squire Wyndall said. The boy was breathless, distraught, and covered in gore from the battle. “Milord, we’ve been routed,” his unturned voice squeaked and cracked as he spoke. “First those fargin Seawardsmen came, then the Blacksword.” 

“What? Who?” the Lion Lord croaked. Then he managed to say, “Water!”

Wyndall fumbled through the tent looking for a wineskin or a flask as he spoke.

“Fargin Seawardsmen got us at first!”

A pitiful groan from not so far away caused the boy to poke his head out of Lord Gregory’s tent and look around. Seeing nothing that was immediately threatening, he continued. 

“Denny, Turl, and half the others ran like curs and left us at a disadvantage. Ah! Here we are.”