The Sword And The Dragon (24 page)

He told himself all of this, but he knew he was just angry. The look in the boy’s eyes was something to behold. Mik was no ordinary castle born pup, and that sword was no stolen weapon, Loudin knew these things instinctually. What had happened though was magical to say the least, and Loudin knew that it was the good kind of magic, not the bad. He had felt as much in his very bones. So much for having a lick of sense, he told himself, as he decided to keep helping the boy.

“I’ll hear your story Mik, my friend, but there’s too much blood here. This is no place to be. I can listen while we ride. By the time we get re-situated, we’ll still have a good bit of daylight left to us.”

They made good time then. The skin was attached to the dead men’s horses, allowing Loudin and Mikahl to ride in a normal, comfortable position. Neither had had the stomach to eat, so they didn’t bother stopping to do so. They were both exhausted, but putting distance between themselves and the feast they had left for the forest creatures, was reason enough to stay awake and keep moving. Just before dark, they reached the river. They made a camp in the open area, between the bank and the forest’s edge where the spring thaw had flooded the banks, and washed away most of the vegetation.

It was good to see the sky again, Mikahl thought. He was glad to be out in the relative openness, and out of the claustrophobic confines of the forest. It was good to have the weight of his secret off of his chest as well. He felt as if he could breathe again after he had told Loudin.

Loudin was silent throughout the evening. He had listened to Mikahl’s story and decided that he believed the boy. No one could have made such a thing up. He also decided, but hadn’t told the boy yet, that he would lead him into the Giant Mountains to the giant named Borg. Borg would know exactly what to do, and how far into the giants’ lands Mik, or Mikahl, he had learned, would be allowed to go. Borg was the guardian of the giant king’s southern borders, and he and Loudin had traded before. Loudin doubted that Mik would ever see King Aldar, or the mysterious castle city called Afdeon, but Borg would relate Mikahl’s messages to the giant king, there was no doubt.

He hadn’t told Mik he was going to guide him, mainly because he didn’t want to commit himself until he had gotten them some good mountain clothes. He no longer wanted to sell the lizard skin at the Summer’s Day Festival. Borg would pay thrice what the human hagglers would for so large a single piece of the precious hide, and now they had horses to carry it. It was rare, and the giant could use it to make a cloak, without having to patchwork smaller pieces together. The humans would just cut it up and parcel it out. 

It was a good twist of fate Loudin decided: do a good deed, and receive a just reward for the doing. The biggest problem, was that the Westlanders were surely looking for Mik at the Festival. There were probably kingdom men all over the realm, searching for the King’s Squire and his parcels. Loudin knew a place where the new King of Westland’s men would never think to look for them. It was a place where they could trade for devil deer hide coats, furred boots, and the rest of what they needed to travel into the treacherous heights of the Giant Mountains. Loudin had accidentally stumbled upon the place once. He was almost certain that he could find it again. At least he hoped he could, because the village of the Skyler Clan was far enough up into the vast foothills that they could possibly freeze to death while looking for it.

“I’ve healed the damage, but I cannot make the poison leave his blood,” Vaegon, the elven archer said to Hyden.

“You speak of me as if I weren’t even here,” Lord Gregory said, from the ground, inside his tattered tent where Wyndall had left him hours ago. 

He thought he had died, and gone to one of the nine Hells, when he opened his eyes, and saw the yellow-eyed demon looking down at him. It was confusing, because he had always thought that the angels would have the gold and silver hair, not the devils. For some reason, the fat little crow that had wanted to eat his eyes had flown from his face to land on the demon’s companion’s shoulder. He couldn’t feel the pain in his body anymore, and they were speaking about him as if he weren’t even there, so all he could do was assume that he wasn’t alive anymore.

“Am I dead?” he finally asked, but before anyone could respond, his body answered for him. Slowly, his shoulder began to burn again from the poison. He felt it oozing through his veins like some thick, nauseating taint.

“You’re Lord Gregory, the Lion of the West,” the person, with the bird on his shoulder, said to him. He wasn’t sure if it was a question or not, but he answered anyway.

“I am Lord Alvin Gregory. Who are you?”

“I am Hyden, son of Harrap, of the Skyler Clan.” He gestured at the elf. “This is Vaegon.” As if it wasn’t obvious he added: “He’s an elf.”

“Then I’m not dead?” Lord Gregory tried to sit up, and found that it wasn’t hard to do. It surprised him. He coughed spasmodically though, when he got a lungful of the acrid smoky air. Looking around as he recovered himself, he realized that it was starting to get dark.

“You’re not dead yet,” Vaegon answered flatly. “But you’ve still got the poison in you.”

“That little black-eyed witch tried to kill you, but she was unlucky,” Hyden added.

“Witch? What are you talking about?” Lord Gregory asked.

“It was no witch,” Vaegon corrected, with a slightly annoyed smirk at Hyden’s ignorance. “It was an imp. A wizard’s pet most likely. The little devils aren’t good for much else.”

“Pael,” Gregory groaned, as the horror of the past few days came flooding back to him. The wizard had probably poisoned King Balton as well. On his death-bed, the King had told him as much, without actually saying the words. 

He hoped that Wyndall wouldn’t fail him, otherwise his wife and Lord Ellrich would never get his warnings. Pael would probably kill them too.

“I must find a giant,” he blurted out. 

If he wasn’t speaking to an elf and a mountain clansman with a baby bird on his shoulder, he might’ve felt foolish for saying such a crazy thing.

Rising to his feet, a wave of dizziness swept over him, but Hyden and Vaegon caught his elbows and steadied him.

“What you need is some squat weed,” Vaegon said. “The imp’s poison is still running through your body.”

“Maybe we can find some in one of the herb shops on the Ways.” Hyden looked at the cloud of dark smoke roiling around the base of the monolithic spire. “If the whole place hasn’t burned to the ground by the time we get there.”

“If not, I can swim the river, and pick some from the forest you humans call the Reyhall,” Vaegon told them. “For some reason, it only grows on the west side of the Leif Greyn flow.”

They helped the Lion Lord onto his horse and made their way along a trail of corpses and smoldering debris. The carnage only grew more abundant as they neared the Spire. 

A couple of groups of sullen women and teary-eyed children, hurried past them as they went. The first group was guarded by Wildermont soldiers, the second, by a handful of poorly armed common folk, who had only taken up the weapons they carried to try to get their loved ones home. More groups were preparing to leave. A pair of young boys stood still as stone over a mangled woman, as if they were expecting her to get up at any moment to tend them.

“What madness is this?” Lord Gregory asked gruffly. The fever was on him again. His whole body was growing hot and his mental clarity was fading fast.

“The madness of men,” Vaegon answered flatly. He winced at his own coldness. A man, after all, had saved his life earlier this day. He decided he would try not to forget that fact again. 

A shadowy shape, that might have been an iron skillet, shot across their path, hurled from a group of Valleyan folk, at a pair of bloody, limping men. Curses were thrown after it. The men just hurried away, with their heads hung low.

The first of many fires was in front of them now, and they had to skirt the beaten path to get around it. A pair of wagons had wrecked in the middle of the road, and now served as fuel for a bonfire. A bolt of what was once probably fine, white spider-silk lace was flaming green at the edge of the mess. Beside it laid a charred corpse, whose arms and legs had drawn up into a fetal ball.

The sound of fighting still echoed from the distance. As grim as the fires were, they were drawing people to them. Hyden saw the burning wagons’ flickering glow reflected in hundreds of eyes. They were everywhere. The people who had survived the day’s insanity watched them pass, with fear and sorrow on their faces. It was unnerving to say the least.

When the fire was behind them, Vaegon spoke.

“I can be across the river and back by morning with the squat weed. It would be foolish, and dangerous, to be out on the Ways searching for the herb, with all the hatred and vengeance that has permeated this place. Among your clansmen, Hyden Hawk, that is where you and the Westland Lord should spend this night.”

“It’s Gregory, you blasted demon. My name is Gregory. Lord Gregory!” the nobleman said. “I’ve got to get into the mountains. I cannot delay!”

He was slumped forward over his saddle horn and sweating profusely, even though the breeze coming down off the mountains was relatively cool.

“Lord Gregory,” Vaegon corrected, as respectfully as he could manage. “Your Brawl with the tattooed man has caused most of this. I know you did not intend it to happen, just as I never intended to see past my hatred for your race, but here we are, nonetheless. If you truly wish to find a giant, then go with Hyden Hawk. When your mind is not so clouded with the poison’s fire, you’ll understand.”

“Why do you hate us?” Hyden asked Vaegon, without any anger in his tone.

“Some wrongs, no matter how ancient they may be, cannot be forgotten. Like a scar remains on the flesh to remind the bearer of the wound and the circumstances that created it.”

“Then, I hope the scars on your face from the shattered arrow this morning, show plainly for all to see,” Hyden said with a deep intensity. “Let them remind those who look upon you, that it is sometimes better to be scarred than not.”

Vaegon considered the words for a long time, and then nodded at the wisdom of them. He made a fist, placed it over his heart, and then made a short bow towards Hyden. The significance of the gesture was lost to Hyden, but he returned it anyway.

The gesture meant several different things, depending on the situation in which it was used: honor, respect, understanding, friendship, and love, to name but a few. In this instance, Vaegon had meant most of them.

Gerard had never ridden a horse before. The Skyler Clan’s isolated culture had never adopted the practice of using beasts of burden for personal transportation. There was no need for them: the terrain was often too steep and inhospitable, and the winters were far too harsh, to try and keep animals that couldn’t stand to be confined in an underground pen for almost half of the year. To endure the mountain winters, the Skyler Clan’s folk lived in underground burrows. It was a necessity of survival. 

Outside of the few times Gerard, Hyden and their young cousins had tried to ride the big horned billy goats that Berda’s husband herded, Gerard had never tried to ride any sort of creature at all. It was an awkward and thrilling feeling. Especially since the group had left in the dark of night just after Bludgeon had died. 

A strange looking man, tall, pale-skinned, and bald as an egg, was the lead rider. His name was Cole and he wore wizard’s robes, and carried a lantern for them to follow – at least it seemed to be a lantern’s light. Gerard wasn’t sure that the light was all that natural. They followed the man on a mad dash southward, to the north end of the river’s huge, lake-like, swell, called the Belly. They stopped there at the water’s edge that first night, and made a cook fire as the sun came up on the morning of Summer’s Day. 

When Gerard dismounted from the horse that Shaella had provided for him, he stumbled along on watery legs, and fell to the ground. Laughing at himself, with the others of the group, he looked around, and in that pink light of dawn, saw that on one side of the make-shift camp was an endless expanse of silvery blue water, while on the other side, was a sea of grassy green valley bottom. Both extended as far as the eye could see.

There were six men, besides him in the group, and all of them, save for Cole and his would-be twin Flick, were roaring at his folly. The laughter stopped abruptly though, when Shaella crawled on top of him right there, where he was sprawled in the dewy grass, and began kissing him deeply. She rubbed and squeezed his inner thighs where the ride had made them sore, until he was dazed and breathless.

“There’s something a few of us must tend to,” she whispered into his ear. Her hot, sweet breath made his head swim. “We won’t be long, and besides, it will give the potion time to do its work on your back and legs.” She kissed him again before he could respond.

“Potion?” he asked dreamily, when she finally pulled away. “What kind of potion? Where did you get such a thing?”

“At the festival silly,” she lied through her brilliant smile.

She pushed herself up off of him, then reached down, and pulled him up into a sitting position. As she went to get the potion from her saddle bags, Gerard glanced at the men by the fire. 

Three slack-jawed heads quickly turned to study the flames. Cole wasn’t at the fire, nor was the man named Flick, who was a slightly rounder and shorter version of him. Both wore black wizard robes, and had clean shaven heads, and both of them had skin as pale as milk. Greyber was at the fire with the other three men, but his huge tattoo covered back was facing Gerard. Obviously, Greyber had been close friends with Bludgeon. When news of Bludgeon’s death had reached them, the man had roared out in anguish. All during the ride, Gerard had seen his jaw muscles working, and more than once, the big Seawardsman had wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. He, unlike the other swordsmen of the group, had paid little attention to Gerard and Shaella’s open affection.

Trent, Dennly, and the other man, Gerard couldn’t recall his name, were all Valleyan outlaws who had escaped a wagon cage and turned into sell swords. Shaella had called them “glorified bandits.” Glorified lecherous bandits, Gerard thought, with the way they watched her as she went about her business.