The Sword And The Dragon (35 page)

From shoulder to shoulder, the hellcat’s narrow chest opened up like a bright red maw. Mikahl noticed two things before his momentum twisted his legs, and sent him tumbling to the ground. The first was that Ironspike’s glow had briefly changed from blue to red, before turning to the bright white radiance that it was emitting now. The second was that he had missed the vital tendons and veins in the hellcat’s neck by only inches. He had sliced too low, and had only caused a flesh wound.

The feline monster snapped out its wings for balance and reared up on its hind legs, like some nightmarish horse. The roar it let out was bone-chilling. It seemed more angry than hurt by the wound Mikahl had inflicted.

To Mikahl’s side, he saw Vaegon fumbling with his bow. The elf’s face was a bloody mess. There was so much blood, that it was a wonder he could even see. By the way he was handling his weapon, Mikahl thought that maybe he couldn’t. 

Mikahl started to rise, but before he could sit up, or even bring Ironspike up to protect himself, the hellcat pounced at him. Its savagely graceful leap landed its bulk right on top of him. Its fore claws found his chest and shoulders, and pinned him in place. The beast’s great weight forced the breath from him, causing him to gasp a lungful of the hellcat’s fetid breath. Warm saliva dripped from a blackened tongue, some of it found its way into Mikahl’s mouth, causing him to retch and gasp for more rotten air. Black empty eyes that he recognized from his nightmares, raged down at him with nothing less than death reflecting from their glossy depths. He felt as if he were about to choke on his own vomit. Mikahl tried desperately to raise Ironspike, but the beast’s paws were huge, and covered his upper arms, chest and shoulders. He could barely turn his head.

Vaegon’s bow thrummed as he loosed an arrow into the creature’s rear flank. The hellcat tensed and roared out its anger at the assault, but didn’t move to get off of Mikahl. Instead, it reared back its head and opened its foul, toothy maw.

This is it,
Mikahl thought, remembering the way the monster lunged out its head before.
 It’s going to tear my face off with those teeth. I’ve failed King Balton and I’m about to die. I’ve come all this way and I’ve failed.

The beast’s head darted down then. Mikahl could see that his own head would easily fit into the hellcat’s mouth. He hoped that the thing would rip it away quick. He didn’t want to die slowly, half maimed out in these foothills. At the last moment, he squeezed his eyes shut, turned away, and waited for the pain. 

It never came. 

The hellcat suddenly stiffened and froze in place. Its head slowly drew back far enough for Mikahl to see that those hungry, evil eyes had grown wide with shock, or maybe confusion. The beast’s brow furrowed. Mikahl heard a solid thump, and then another. The monstrous winged feline, jerked with each of the sounds. Suddenly, it leapt to the side, writhing and shrieking in frustration. 

Mikahl couldn’t possibly imagine what was happening to the thing, and he didn’t wait around to try and figure it out. He sucked in a deep, well needed breath of fresh air, drew his knees up to his chest, and then kicked out, while arching his back. The move brought him acrobatically to his feet, and he was in a defensive stance, facing the hellcat less than a heartbeat later. The beast had at least half a dozen arrows sticking up out of its back now. Another arrow came streaking down out of the sky, and stuck into the ground between Mikahl and the monster. Not daring to take his eyes off of the raging and confused creature before him, it took Mikahl a moment to figure out what was happening.

The hellcat started toward Mikahl again. As he steadied himself to make a swing with Ironspike, another of the arrows slammed into the creature’s back, but it didn’t stop. It took one long, lunging leap, then another, and then launched itself into a crushing pounce. Mikahl stumbled over the ring of rocks they had placed around their campfire as he instinctually backed away. He brought his sword up, and managed to hold the blade out steady, even though he fell, and landed hard. The hellcat’s great weight would impale it on the sword when it came down on him this time. 

Mikahl waited, with his eyes clenched shut, to feel the beast come crashing down, but it didn’t happen. The heavy “THUMP!” of leathery wings catching air came instead. The nightmare come to life, flew over Mikahl’s head, and disappeared back into the darkness.

He passed a few anxious moments waiting to see if the hellcat would return, but it didn’t. As soon as he was sure the beast had fled, Mikahl went to Vaegon’s side.

“Go! Find your Lion Lord,” the elf said waving him away. “I’ll be all right.”

“What if that thing returns?” Mikahl asked.

“Then we will deal with it,” a breathless voice spoke from the darkness beyond them. 

It was Loudin, Mikahl realized in a flood of relief. He was coming out of the darkness with a handful of the hawkman’s people. 

“Is it hot?”

One of them kicked a booted foot at the barely visible fire ring where Mikahl had just been sprawled. The tiny swirl of sparking embers was stirred up by the kick. He poured liquid from a flask into it and flames leapt up. Wood that had been set aside for the morning’s cook fire was thrown into the blaze by another man. 

“We have light here now,” Harrap said sternly. “And we have torches on the way. Use the sword’s light to search for the other man.”

He turned to a pair of young men who were not much older than Mikahl. “Tylen, Derry, go and help him.”

Even though each and every one of the hawkman’s people had deeply tanned skin, and sported the same long, slick black length of hair, Mikahl could tell that the man giving the orders was Hyden Hawk’s father. It was clear he was an authority figure here, and the resemblance was unmistakable.

It was dawn before they found Lord Gregory. He was just over the next ridge, half in, half out of a huddle of pine shrub. He was still alive, but barely. He had been dropped from a great height, and it appeared that nearly every bone in his body was broken. He also had several puncture wounds in his back, and a wide open tear, from his chest to his chin. When they got him back to the camp, Vaegon tried to heal him, but it didn’t work. He wasn’t strong enough. One of the elf’s eyes was swollen shut and the other was blood red. A deep, jagged tear ran from his slightly pointed ear to the closed eye. 

The men from the Skyler Clan ended up making a travois for Lord Gregory, and then toted him back to the village, where a burrow had been cleared out just for the outsiders.

Hyden had helped only slightly in the search for the Westland Lord. He hadn’t raced down into the camp either. Instead, he had stood on the ridge, and used his bow and his hawk-like vision to put those arrows into the hellcat’s back. As soon as he was sure that the creature had fled, he had gone to tend to Talon. Only after the hawkling had come out of the half stunned state his collision with the ceiling of the council chamber had caused, did Hyden leave the village to help the others in the search.

The women cooked a stew that was chocked full of healing herbs and goat meat. Poultices and liniments were administered. Mikahl took several stitches in a wound on his chest that he didn’t remember getting. All that could be done for him, Lord Gregory, and the elf was done.

Vaegon would survive. One eye was probably ruined, but it was too soon to say for certain. Lord Gregory though, was nearly torn in two. Vaegon did what he could do, but even with the elf’s magical healing abilities, the Lord of Lake Bottom would most likely die. If the gods did decide to let him live, the elf told them, he would never walk again.

With all of the swelling from his broken limbs, and the ghastly purple color of his pulverized flesh, Lord Gregory was not a pretty sight to look upon. He looked worse than dead. Late the second night, when he suddenly opened his eyes and croaked out a request to see Mikahl, came as a shock to everyone.

Mikahl had to be rousted from sleep, but once he knew why he had been awakened, he hurried to Lord Gregory side. The dying man’s voice was weak. The gleam of life had left his eyes completely.

“Is that you Mik?” The words came out in a scratchy hiss. “Are you there?”

“I’m here, milord,” Mikahl told him. He wanted to take the man’s hand as a show of support, but it was so swollen, that it looked like the skin might split.

To Mikahl, his onetime teacher and mentor looked more like a tangle of gnarled tree roots that a man.

With appalling effort, Lord Gregory swallowed. 

“He was your father you know,” he croaked. “He made sure, in the best way he knew how, that you were prepared for your birthright.”

“What are you talking about?” Mikahl asked, with a panicked look at the woman who had been watching over the Lion Lord. “You’re fevered and confused.”

“Maybe so your Highness, but you’re still the intended heir to your father’s throne.” He blinked and lulled his head to the side so that he could look into Mikahl’s eyes. “Ironspike’s magic only ignites to those of Pavreal’s blood line, Mik,” he coughed. 

His body wracked with terrible pain, but he fought it back. Mikahl felt hot tears streaming down his cheeks. He realized that he loved this man just as much as he had loved King Balton.

“Glendar is a greedy fool; Pael’s puppet, you’ll see. King Balton saw it a long time ago. There’s a third, but –”

It looked as if the Lion Lord passed on then, but his chest still rose, fell and wheezed as his body struggled on. 

Mikahl stayed there the rest of the night, lost in teary-eyed sorrow, hoping that the mighty Lion of the West would speak to him again, but he didn’t. Mikahl couldn’t help but wonder what the third was that Gregory had started to talk about. Nor could he keep from being swallowed up by the confusion of the things the man had told him. Had Lord Gregory not turned and looked into his eyes, he might’ve dismissed the words as rambling, but now he couldn’t, because he knew it was the truth.

“We’ve taken the bridge!” someone yelled from outside King Glendar’s command pavilion. 

An excited cheer came from the sea of Westland soldiers gathered and waiting in formation around it. 

“Don’t crowd the bridge!” a stern voice commanded over the ruckus. “Third, Fourth, and Fifth Cavalry, you’ll cross next! Stay in order! You’re captains will lead you! Once you’ve cleared some room on the other side, the rest of us will follow. Now go! Take the city! Go take Castlemont!”

More cheers erupted as the orders began to be carried out.

Inside the hastily erected command tent, King Glendar stood with his arms across his chest, tapping a foot impatiently. He was waiting for his two new page boys to get the carpets unrolled so that his desk could be situated in the center of the pavilion the way he had pictured it in his head. The pages were testing his patience to the limits. 

Lord Brach had led the First and Second Cavalry personally, and had taken control of the massive bridge that lead from Westland into Wildermont. He had done well. The taking of the bridge was paramount to this initial operation. Without it, there could be no mass troop crossing. No mass troop crossing meant there would be no element of surprise.

It was just after dawn, and King Glendar was tired and cranky. It was one thing to plan a secret early morning attack, but it was another thing entirely, to have to get out of bed to carry it out. He would’ve much rather been back at Lakeside Castle, sleeping until midmorning, only to be awakened by the hot mouth of one of his many servant girls. But no, Pael insisted that Glendar lead the army of the west on this attack. It seemed to Glendar that Pael insisted on a lot of things lately; far too many things. There was no doubt that he owed Pael a boon or two for all the help he had given him over the years, but he was King now.

King! It seemed at times, that Pael ordered him around, as if he were still a child. He’d heard the sniggers in the castle halls, whispering things like, “wizard’s puppet,” or “puppet king.” They had called him worse when he was growing up. Not anymore though. Nearly a hundred disloyal sniggering heads decorated the castle yards back at Lakeside. No one dared to say an ill word about him now. He gave one of the pages a glare that promised severe punishment if he didn’t hurry up.

“The rest of you go now! Steady, keep it ordered!” the voice outside the tent sounded loudly. “Infantry, you go next! You already know what to do after we cross! Ready to march now! On my command! And march!”

The carpets King Glendar insisted on using each weighed as much as a full grown man and were nearly impossible for the two adolescent boys to manage. On top of that, the youngsters were scared to death of the ill tempered new King. The younger of the two boys stumbled over the corner of a carpet that had already been unrolled, and went down in a face-first sprawl. The other page went to help him.

Glendar yelled. “I should mount one of your heads on my desk, to remind your replacements of your clumsiness.” 

Neither of the boys considered the threat an idle one. Tears welled in the eyes of the fallen boy. The other wet his pants while trying to help his companion to his feet. At that point, all the work had stopped completely. Glendar had scared them stiff.

“What?” Glendar screamed. “What is wrong with you two? It’s not complicated! You unroll the blasted rug and move the desk! How hard can it be?” Spittle flew from his clenched teeth. “I guess I’ll have to mount both of your heads!” He drew a sword that looked quite similar to Ironspike, but had no magical properties whatsoever. He would’ve used it to cut off their heads, had Pael not entered the pavilion just then.

“Put the blade a way,” the wizard commanded sharply. 

Glendar spun, and looked at Pael, as if he had just told him that the sky was yellow, instead of blue. 

“Not now, Pael,” he shot back dismissively, and then turned his attention back to the trembling boys.

Pael mumbled some unintelligible phrase, and made a grasping gesture with his hand, like he was choking the air. The look on King Glendar’s face went from anger to shock, to fear. An invisible hand had gripped his throat and was threatening to crush it. It was all he could do to draw in a breath.