“Where’s Loudin?” he asked.
“He’s dead,” Mikahl answered, sadly. “I apologize, but I’d rather only tell the tale once, so I’ll wait to tell it. The bark lizard skin is yours, my friend. I’m sure Loudin would’ve wanted you to have it.”
Borg’s head lowered, and he mumbled something that might have been a prayer, but sounded suspiciously like, “Not for free he wouldn’t have.”
Then, he threw a fat leather bag to the ground at Mikahl’s feet. It was loosely tied, and the mouth of it had fallen open. Inside, was a chunk of raw gold, as big as Mikahl’s fist, and there were a few smaller pieces as well.
“I’m sure that he would’ve wanted you to have that,” Borg said, in a way that left no room for argument.
Just then, the other male giant stepped from the trees, and the group all stood to greet him.
With a rap of his staff, and a sweep of his arm, Borg spoke in a deep, resounding voice.
“May I present King Colossi Aldar, Master of Peaks and Valleys, Lord of Afdeon, ruler of these mountains and all who call them home. The pillar of our –”
“Enough, Borg,” King Aldar interrupted, with a shake of his head. “I get enough of that bunkum at home.”
He absently patted at the two wolves that were prancing at his feet. Another joined them, wagging not just its tail, but its whole body as it vied for the Giant King’s attention.
King Aldar was a full head taller than Borg, but looked much the same. His long hair and beard held quite a bit more silver and gray than the Southern Guardian’s, but his sapphire eyes were not as deeply set. His clothes, while being skins, and made of a similar cut to Borg’s, were far better tailored, and all made from the same animal, so that they didn’t appeared to be patched together.
His staff was made of bone or ivory. Unlike Borg’s, it was no weapon. Its base was shod in silver. Its shaft was carved into a flow of leafy vines, and its head was shaped into a great white wolf. Amber jewels glittered in the eyes of the carved beast, and lent it the unsettling quality of appearing to watch everyone around the King of Giants.
Where Borg’s face was dominated by a huge forehead, King Aldar’s wide, but sharp nose drew the eye. He was wrinkled and old, ancient most likely, but still fit. Wisdom oozed from him like fragrances in a flower garden.
He studied them all for a moment, and then stepped across the stream. He looked down at Hyden, and smiled kindly.
“My daughter has befriended your hawkling it seems. I hope it is no inconvenience. She only came because she’s never seen a human before, and now she’s grown too bashful to present herself.”
He motioned to Borg, and then pointed at a boulder a short way downstream with his staff. Wordlessly, Borg went to the massive rock to roll it to where the king indicated. When it was in place, at the edge of the firelight, King Aldar sat down with a sigh, and motioned for the others to do the same.
“Princess Greta is shy,” he continued speaking about his daughter. “She’s not yet a woman, but trying desperately to keep from being considered a child. She’s curious, which is good, I suppose.”
He looked around towards the forest from where they had come, and looked like he was about to call her, but must have decided against it. Instead, he touched one of the wolves at his feet. Its ears perked up, and with a “Yip!” it, and another wolf, scampered back across a stream, and disappeared into the woods. With his long staff, the Giant King reached over to the wolf by Hyden’s feet, and touched it softly.
“Hunt,” he whispered.
The wolf rose up, stretched, and after a long tongue-curling yawn, it growled at the rest of the pack, and strode off up the creek bed. All but two of the other wolves followed excitedly.
Turning to meet Mikahl’s eyes, Borg spoke.
“Before the princess shows herself, I would like to hear about what befell Loudin of the Reyhall. He was a man I held much regard for.”
Mikahl started to speak, but thankfully, Vaegon cut him off. The elf told the tale concisely and completely, leaving no important detail unspoken. From the physical descriptions of the two dark beasts, to the radiant magic of Ironspike’s blade as Mikahl wielded it against them, the elf painted the gruesome scene.
Mikahl was thankful. He could barely hold back his tears while listening. If he had had to tell the story himself, he would have broken down, and he didn’t want that to happen; not in front of King Aldar.
As the elf told of the burial of Loudin, and the strange circle of blue flowers, Mikahl saw that Princess Greta had come, and in an attempt to not be rude and interruptive, was wandering about on the other side of the pool. At the moment, she was chasing Talon here and there, like a young human girl might chase a butterfly. The two wolves King Aldar had dispatched after her, were lolling nearby, watching her and the area around her. It became clear that they weren’t just lazing. They were intently guarding her.
Hyden noticed the Princess as well, and studied her as Vaegon spoke. She was his size, but by her girlish manner, it was clear that she was only around ten or eleven years old. Her dark hair fell in ringlets around a wide, but pretty face. Even from across the stream, he could make out the spattering of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose, from cheek to cheek. She wore a doe skin long shirt that hung to her knees, and loose fitting britches underneath. A bright, rose-red pair of furred boots matched a coat or cloak that lay in a bunch near the stream.
Hyden couldn’t tell if the boots and cloak had been dyed that color or if it was natural. He couldn’t think of a creature whose fur was that bright a shade of red, but there was no telling what sort of animals lived way up in the heights that the giants called home. It was another question he would have to ask Berda when he saw her again. If he saw her again, he corrected the thought. The feeling that he wouldn’t, seemed to grow stronger every day.
By the time Vaegon had finished the telling, the sky was starting to darken, and the faces of the two giants looked grave. There was a long, reverent silence, and then King Aldar called over his daughter and introduced her.
Princess Greta blushed, and hid behind him while he spoke. She curtsied at the appropriate time, and managed to keep from giggling. Then, when the introduction was finished, she made off with Talon as quickly as she could. Her two great wolf guardians followed her dutifully as she went back across the stream to explore. More than once, Borg’s cautious eyes glanced protectively towards the area where she was playing.
The King of the Giants was silent for a very long time after she left. His eyes kept finding Mikahl, then lingering on the few inches of Ironspike that were exposed, and softly glowing at his hip. He was pondering the news of more dark creatures attacking people in his kingdom. Before running into this group, Borg had killed a red-eyed Hell Boar as it came up out of Westland’s Reyhall Forest into the mountains. The thing had run rampant through a herd, and almost killed a herdsman.
The leader of the wolf-pack returned just after dark. His muzzle showed pink and bloody in the firelight. Borg went off after the beast, and returned with a freshly killed doe. It was obvious that the wolf pack had killed more than one deer, because they all had bloody snouts and paws, and the doe Borg carried was intact, save for a small chunk that had been torn from its neck.
While Borg and Vaegon dressed the meat, King Aldar politely told Mikahl that he would speak to him later, after they had eaten, and in private, if Mikahl wished it so. Mikahl declined the need for privacy. As far as he was concerned, his friends could hear anything King Aldar had to say to him about the scrolls, the sword, and King Balton’s wishes. They were wrapped up in all this now as much as he was. At least it seemed so.
The savory smell of the doe’s haunches roasting over the open flames should have given Mikahl an appetite, but the fear and uncertainty of what was written in King Balton’s scrolls, and what the Giant King might tell him, turned his stomach into an icy knot.
Sensing his discomfort, the leader of the wolf-pack nuzzled his side, and
sniffed at Ironspike’s exposed blade, until Mikahl started scratching him behind the ears. Again, the big wolf leaned into him.
Oddly, Mikahl found a deep and calming comfort in the weight of the powerful creature. He was thankful for it.
Chapter 39
“I don’t know how much you know about what’s going on,” King Aldar said after they had all eaten. “I think it would be best if I just tell you everything I can remember.”
The sun had long since left the sky. From behind a small bank of clouds, a half moon shone brightly, lining its edges in silver. Around that, hundreds upon hundreds of twinkling stars spread out as far as the eye could see. The air was chilly, but the fire was warm and blazing brightly.
Hyden used his bedroll to make a palette for Princess Greta, who insisted on sleeping near the horses. The horses didn’t mind the oversized girl so much as they minded the wolves, who were constantly watching over her. Mikahl and Hyden had done their best to soothe the animals, and for the moment, they seemed to be at relative ease.
“The blood recently shed on the sacred ground of the Leif Greyn Valley, around the Monolith, violated a pact that was made a very long time ago.”
The Giant King produced a pipe from a pocket inside his fur. He looked into its chamber, seemed satisfied with what he saw, and then lit it with a flaming twig from the fire. The chamber glowed as he puffed, and a billowy cloud escaped his mouth as he continued.
“Four, or maybe five, centuries ago, I forget exactly, but it’s not important. Way back then, a foolishly curious human wizard called forth a demon. This demon came to the earth unbound, and it quickly consumed that wizard’s soul. I forget the wizard’s name, but what’s important is that he was the High King’s Wizard.
“After tapping all of the wizard’s knowledge, the demon consumed the High King. His name I remember. King Steven he was called. He started war upon war, and by the blood of the dead, called forth more of his demon kind until he had an entire army of dark beings to command.
“It is also said that those human warriors, whose hearts and battlefield deeds were cruel enough, were sometimes granted a dark gift as well. When they were mortally wounded, they didn’t die. As undead, they fought on, and the Demon King’s army grew stronger and stronger, attacking us, the elves, and even the dwarves, when they could root them out of their holes.
“The Demon King was an abomination to all that is natural, and eventually even the dragons, who rarely meddled in human affairs, took offense at the dark power he had amassed. The elves lent their unique might, as did the dwarves, and of course the humans. Together, they battled the dark hordes, for what seemed like an age. Back and forth the battles turned, back and forth, until it began to seem like a hopeless fight.
“The demons were winning, even when they were being beaten on the fields. The very act of fighting them, of defending oneself, gave those dark things a feast of hatred and fear to feed upon.”
Hyden, excited and into the story, almost blurted out, “What happened then?” but he caught himself, remembering who it was that was speaking.
“Then one day,” the Giant King continued, “a human man came forth, a brave swordsman who was willing to give his life to right the wrong the human wizard had committed. He really just wanted vengeance for the death of his lover, but the bards, I think, like to leave that part out of it. He wasn’t afraid to die trying to exact his revenge though, so that gave him a sort of power over the demons.”
“Pavreal,” Hyden said aloud. He flushed darkly at the stern glances King Aldar, Mikahl, and Borg gave him for his interruption.
“Yes, Hyden Hawk, Pavreal,” King Aldar finally nodded.
Hyden blushed even harder hearing the King of Giants use his nickname. He glared daggers at Vaegon, who had a slight grin on his feral looking face.
“He was also known as a Marked One. ‘The Marked One’ really. As a child, he’d been a pit slave in one of the Demon King’s forge furnaces, and the soot and ash that that settled in the whiplashes that crossed his back healed, leaving him marked with stripes like some wild beast.”
Mikahl thought of Loudin and his tattoo striped-body. He didn’t think the Seawardsman had ever been a slave. Maybe it was a religious thing, or a rite of passage. He remembered something from his lessons about why those southern men marked themselves, though he couldn’t recall what it was at the moment; something to do with the sea, maybe? He chided himself for not paying better attention to his lesson master. Then, he chided himself for not paying better attention to King Aldar. He didn’t want to miss any of what the King was saying, so he shoved the abstract thoughts out of his mind for now, and listened.
“…such was Pavreal’s hatred of the Demon King.”
King Aldar paused, and puffed deeply on his pipe. He exhaled a fat, swirling ring of smoke, watched it waver and rise for a moment, and then blew it into a misshapen cloud. His eyes fell to rest on Ironspike.
The small section of exposed blade was glowing softly, bathing Mikahl’s side and upper thigh in pale, blue light. King Aldar’s brows narrowed, then he brought his gaze up and gave Mikahl a look that conveyed the importance of what he was about to say.
“A great gathering of the leaders of all the races was held, and a decision was made. A plan was formed. We giants supplied the purest of ores that these mountains hold: iron, titanium, and silver, among others. The dwarves forged the metal under dragon’s fire, and the elves weaved spell after spell into the weapons that were made that day. Then once the items had been dipped in the magical waters of Whitten Loch, the great human wizard, Killton Alx, put enchantments on them as well.
They were still far too hot for a man to handle though. They were placed on a block of Wardstone, in a secret cavern in the eastern range of mountains beyond Xwarda. After almost a year, they finally cooled, and then the War Hammer of Doon, the Arrows of Tayllah, and the Sword Errion Spightre were ready. The name Ironspike grew out of the old language’s strange pronunciation of ‘Errion Spightre,’ which means Demon Fighter, in the old tongue of lore.”
Hyden wanted badly to ask where the Hammer of Doon and the arrows were now, but was afraid to draw the wrath of the Giant King.
Mikahl looked down at the blade glowing at his hip, trying to imagine dragon’s fire bathing it while dwarves hammered it into shape. He couldn’t quite fathom such a thing.
“To get to the point of the matter,” King Aldar continued through another cloud of pipe smoke. “Pavreal somehow used the sword to draw the demon’s essence out of King Steven. Then he, and the wizard, Killton Alx, went to the place in the southern marshes we giants call the Black Tooth, and made a passageway back into the world of darkness. They put a lock on this passage that they called the Seal. The demon was banished from the blade through this Seal, back into the hellish Nethers where it came from.
Pavreal hunted demons with the sword his whole life. Each time he took one, he brought it to the Seal, and banished it back to the darkness. Pavreal had become the unquestioned leader of the campaign against the demon hordes, and soon all the humans eventually called him King. For an age, hope prevailed, while things were rebuilt and restored. Slowly, the dark things that lingered, were hunted down, and sent back into the hell from which they had come.
“Generations passed, and it was learned that the demon, while in King Steven’s body, had spawned several children. They had children, and the demon seed was passed on. Most of those demon-kin were only mildly evil in nature. They lived as slavers, tyrant lords, or dabblers in the dark arts. Nothing seriously dangerous to the world, but then came Shokin. Birthed from a half penny whore, and more demon than man, Shokin was obsessed with reopening the seal. Eventually, he found a way to do it. That was just two and a half centuries ago.
“Shokin was no fool. He bound the power of the greater demons to himself as he released them, and used their power as his own. Once he had gathered enough power, he stole their essences, and killed them. The things he did, the horrors he committe
d, the evils, the torments, and all the sinister connivery he brought to the world, earned the respect of the Abbadon. The Hell-god himself granted Shokin eternal life, by making him a fully fledged demon.
“He was eventually pulled onto Ironspike’s magical blade by your ancestor King William, but not before he had destroyed much of the land, and divided the kingdom into all its warring factions.
For years to come, the seeds of his subtle lies and deceit would keep sprouting. This time, when the demon essence was banished into the seal, a wizard summoned a dragon, and with King William, they made a blood pact. The dragon, not wanting to be trapped by the pact forever, made stipulations. For some reason that only dragons know, dragons have a deep regard for the Monolith in the Leif Greyn Valley, and since that dragon knew that the humans gathered there every year, and knew that sooner or later there would be a bloody battle, it chose that as the focal point of its conditional binding to guard the seal.
As long as the humans continued to meet every year in peace, and shed no innocent blood in the earth of the Sacred Valley, the dragon would guard the Seal so that no other could come along and open it as Shokin had. Recently, the pact was broken.”
King Aldar nodded questioningly at Borg. The Southern Guardian gave a short grim nod of agreement in return.
“The dragon no longer guards the Seal,” the Giant King continued. “I fear it has been opened. I fear that Shokin may be loose again. We all know firsthand that some of the lesser devils and dark creatures are about.”
“These things, these hellcats, wyverns, and hell boars, are only minions. They’re being sent and commanded by some far greater evil.”
The Sword and the Dragon Page 43
