The Long Journey Home (The Legend of Vanx Malic Book 8)

by M. R. Mathias

  “I—mmm—don’t—mmm—know?” Hyden answered as he chewed. Once the venison was softened, he spat a wad of the chewed-up meat into his hand. He dangled the meat over the little gray chick’s snapping beak and it gobbled the stuff up greedily. Immediately, it started squawking for more. Hyden bit off another piece of the meat, chewed it up, and fed it to the hungry bird. With Gerard’s help, he made a makeshift nest out of his rough-spun shirt. Once the little chick was nestled in, it immediately fell asleep.

  By all rights, it was Hyden’s egg that hatched, but it was Gerard who harvested it. Hyden turned to his brother with a serious look on his face.

  “You brought it down from the cliff, but it hatched after you gave it to me. I don’t know if it could be the legend or not, but if it is, who is the chosen one? Me or you?”

  “The Elders will know,” Gerard said, trying to remember the exact words of the prophetic campfire story. He realized after a moment that it was no use. He had heard the story told a dozen different ways.

  The most common version of the legend stated that one day a clansman’s harvest would be blessed by the Goddess in the form of a special egg. Even keep moss wouldn’t keep this supposedly blessed egg from hatching. The lucky clansman and his hawkling were supposed to bond and then go off into the world to do extraordinary things together. They would have adventures far beyond imagining. They would travel beyond the mountains and across the seas, and their lives would be exciting. They would serve the Goddess abroad and possibly earn a place in the heavens at her side.

  After Hyden shouldered the pack with the five remaining eggs in it, he carefully picked up the shirt nest with both hands. Gerard led the way out of the canyon and as they skirted the forest, he took extra care to make sure no branches or footfalls hindered his brother’s way. The trail wasn’t long, but it was rocky in places and awkward. It was meant to remain hidden, so it took them a while to make the short journey to the harvest lodges.

  They made it to the small group of crude huts by midmorning. They tried to make it to their grandfather’s hut with as little notice as possible, but it was impossible. Tales of Gerard’s leap from the day before had made it back to the lodges already, told by clansmen who watched the cliff face from afar. A handful of younger boys rushed forth to question Gerard about it. Because the clan women weren’t allowed at the harvest, the boys who weren’t yet old enough to climb were starved for attention and ran wild like a pack of scavengers. They wanted to know how well Gerard’s second harvest went, and if Gerard and Hyden knew how well Little Condlin had done. Gerard shooed them away as best he could, but a few of them spied the hawkling chick in Hyden’s hands and grew overly excited. It took only moments for the tale of the gift the Goddess had bestowed upon Gerard, or maybe Hyden, to reach every set of ears at the lodges.

  Having just heard the news from a group of his grandnephews, Hyden and Gerard’s grandfather received them well. He quickly ushered them through the door to his shabby little hut. He gave an angry scowl to the line of boys that followed, which sent them scurrying every direction but forward. With that, he pulled the elk skin door closed and tied it fast.

  “On the table, boy,” Grandfather said, with an excited grin on his wrinkled, old face.

  Hyden set the bundle down gently on the table, while Gerard found their grandfather’s food box and pulled out some bread and cheese as if he owned the place. In council and in public, this man was the Eldest of the clan. All of the Skylers treated him with the utmost respect, but here inside his harvest hut, just like in his home, he was simply the grandfather of two excited boys.

  He leaned over the table and studied the chick for a moment, then he brushed the long, silver-streaked hair out of his face and sat down. He motioned for the boys to do the same, indicating Gerard could bring the bread and cheese with him.

  “This is a wondrous thing,” he said in his deep, scratchy voice. “Great things will come of this.” He looked to Gerard, then to Hyden, and the smile on his face slowly faded. “But there is the potential for terrible things as well.”

  Gerard handed Hyden some bread and cut them both some of the cheese as he spoke.

  “The story says a man will harvest an egg and it will hatch for him. Then, he and the hawkling will go off and do great things together.”

  “Aye, Gerard,” their grandfather agreed. “That the story does say.”

  He stood slowly, then walked to the other side of the little hut and began rummaging through a pile of old furs and leather satchels.

  “The story though, is just that. It’s a story. The true legend is written in the old language—the language of dragons and wizards. It may or may not be a true prophesy. The Elders and I have often argued that.”

  He stopped speaking suddenly as something came to him. He dug around some more, then pulled an object out of an old bag made from the skin of some shaggy mountain animal.

  “Here it is!” he exclaimed. “My father’s translation.” He opened the tattered volume and looked at the pages for a while.

  A few long moments passed, so long that it began to appear he forgot the two boys sitting at his table.

  Hyden looked at his brother with a grin. He was about to clear his throat to politely remind the old man of their presence, but the hawkling chick did the job for him.

  The little featherless bird wiggled his body and rose trembling to its tiny, clawed feet. It extended its neck up into the air, opened its beak, and began screeching for food. Gerard immediately pulled some jerky from his pack and gave it to his older brother. Hyden chewed it up just like before. Once the meat was soft, he gave it to the bird.

  “Is this the first time you’ve fed it?” their grandfather asked with a look of childish excitement on his old face. He seemed to have forgotten his book entirely now, and he watched with rapt attention as Hyden took out another piece of chewed meat and fed it to the hungry bird.

  “Mmm—no,” Hyden answered as he chewed. “I fed it—mmm—once this—mmm—morn.”

  “Then it will be your familiar,” the old man said matter-of-factly. It was the voice of the clan Eldest speaking now, not their grandfather. “It will bond with you alone now, Hyden. You’re its mother.”

  All eyes seemed to fall on Gerard at that moment, searching for some sign of disappointment or other ill reaction to the decision. Gerard wasn’t very upset. He had the ring, after all. Besides, he told himself, what respectable clansman wanted to be a mother?

  “I and the Elders who are here at harvest will hold a council on this at moonrise,” their grandfather informed them as he opened up the old book again. “Stay near the lodges this night. We will want to speak to you about this…both of you,” he added before Gerard could ask the question that was already formed on the tip of his tongue.

  Walking with his face in the old book, the Eldest gracefully shouldered his way through the elk skin door and was gone.

  Chapter Three

  “Where ye headed, Mik?” Ruddy, the nightshift stable master at Lakeside Castle’s Royal Stables, asked.

  “Can’t say,” Mikahl replied. Mikahl was the King of Westland’s personal squire, and the king had told him with much distress in his voice to prepare for a long journey, and to do so quietly. Mikahl was almost certain that by “quietly“, the king meant undetected. Mikahl asked if he should prepare the king’s mount as well, and the answer was firm. “You’ll be going alone, Mik, and the journey will be a long one. No one can suspect you’re leaving.”

  The conversation took place a short while ago when Mikahl and the king were alone, just after the feast for the Summer’s Day delegation. The oddness of it was just now starting to sink in. “Just be ready, Mik,” King Balton told him. “I’ll try to send for you and give you more instruction later this night.”

  All of this was very cryptic to Mikahl. King Balton, the ruler of all of Westland, seemed afraid. The way he’d cleared the entire dining hall and whispered into Mikahl’s ear with wild, darting eyes, was unnerving. To
top it off, the king sent Mikahl out through the back of the kitchens so the bulk of the nobility and the castle’s staff would not see him depart. King Balton had never acted like this before, at least not around Mikahl. It was all very strange and Mikahl was beginning to worry about the king’s health. The man was fairly old, no one could doubt, but he had never acted like this before. Maybe he’d reached the end of his rope?

  “Bah!” Mikahl chided himself for thinking such thoughts. King Balton was a great man; fair and wise beyond measure. He had been terribly kind to Mikahl, and his mother, before she died. There had to be something wrong. The sudden journey must be extremely important for it to be so secret and cause the king such distress.

  Mikahl looked at the nosy stable master, thought about it for a second, then pulled a small but fancy silver flask out of his saddlebag.

  “They never tell me where I’m going or why,” Mikahl lied. “But it doesn’t matter at the moment because I’ve been itching to try this. I filled it from the royal cask at dinner.”

  “King Balton’s own brandy?” Ruddy asked eagerly.

  “The very same.” Mikahl took a sip and passed it to the man. “Missy, the servant girl, held the table’s attention by leaning over and wiggling her arse while I filled my tin.”

  Mikahl pretended to sip and let the stable master slowly finish off the flask. His story worked like a charm. The size of Missy’s breasts was well known to every man on the castle staff. They were so large that even the priests couldn’t keep their eyes off them. In truth, Mikahl drank from the king’s cask often. Doing so was just one of the many benefits that came with his job as King’s Squire.

  There wasn’t enough liquor in the flask to put Ruddy down, but it was enough to dull his wits. With thoughts of Missy’s giant breasts swirling around in his head, his mind wouldn’t dwell on Mikahl and his business. At least Mikahl hoped not.

  Just as Mikahl finished loading his packhorse, a man peeked through the stable doors. After wrinkling his nose at the fresh, horsey smell, he told Mikahl that King Balton required his presence again – immediately.

  As Mikahl followed the scurrying servant through the castle’s myriad of torch-lit hallways, it became clear they weren’t going to the council chamber, or the throne room, or even back to the dining hall. The ancient castle was a monstrosity of towers, hallways, apartments, and gardens, all added one on top of the other. Mikahl was born in the servants’ wing almost twenty years ago. He spent his entire youth running the castle’s halls and corridors, but he still hadn’t managed to see it all. The fourth flight of stairs they climbed told him exactly where they were going, though. They were going to the king’s personal bed chamber. Mikahl had visited the Royal Apartment only once since becoming the king’s squire.

  As they topped the stairs and turned from the landing to face the Royal Apartment’s large oak double doors, Lord Alvin Gregory came out. He was extremely pale, and the look of sadness on his face sent a chill through Mikahl’s blood.

  Lord Gregory was the king’s good friend and most trusted adviser. He was also the current Lord of Lake Bottom Stronghold and was known across the entire realm as the Lion Lord, or Lord Lion. This was because he fought with great courage, pride, and skill. He was the epitome of bravery and a famous Summer’s Day brawling champion, but he looked nothing like that fierce and brave champion at the moment. His normally bright green eyes were haunted, and his expression was dark and grave.

  Mikahl was Lord Gregory’s squire for three years prior to becoming the king’s squire. Lord Gregory taught him the proper etiquette, customs, and everything else he needed to know to serve at King Balton’s side. The days Mikahl spent at Lake Bottom learning from the Lion Lord were days he cherished deeply. The man was his mentor and his friend, and he could plainly tell something horrible was afoot.

  Lord Gregory walked up to Mikahl and touched him on the cheek. He looked at the young squire long and hard, then forced a smile. He gave Mikahl a nod that seemed to be full of equal partsrespect and regret, then vanished down the stairwell without a word. Mikahl watched the empty air at the top of the landing long after Lord Lion disappeared. The next thing he knew, the servant was pulling him by the sleeve toward the king’s chambers.

  The apartment was hot and silent. A dozen candles and a dim flickering lantern barely illuminated the beautifully furnished room. Mikahl expected to see the king sitting in one of his high-backed chairs or on one of the plush divans, but he was in his bed under piles of thick covers.

  “Ah, Mikahl,” the king said weakly. A tired smile spread across his slick, gray face. Mikahl almost didn’t recognize this man as his king. Balton Collum looked so near to death that it made Mikahl’s head spin.

  A sharp glance from the king sent the servants and the black-robed priest who was attending him quickly out the door. As soon as they were alone, King Balton motioned for Mikahl to come sit at the edge of the bed.

  “We haven’t time to parley, Mik,” the old man rasped. “The poison has almost run its course.”

  “Poison?” Mikahl was aghast. Who would do such a thing? The king was loved and respected by all. Mikahl was shocked speechless as he slid off the edge of the bed and knelt before the man who was the closest thing to a father he had ever known. He wondered how long the King knew he was poisoned? King Balton seemed a little too accepting of the situation. Was that what all the secrecy was about? Was he dying? The look in King Balton’s eyes said so, but to Mikahl it didn’t make any sense.

  “Go to the temple by the north road gate,” King Balton whispered. “Father Petri has something for you to take with you on your journey. Take what he gives you deep into the Giant Mountains. A giant named Borg will find you and lead you to his King.”

  As if saying all of that had leeched the life from the poisoned old man, his head lulled to the side. For a long while all that moved were his eyeballs and his heaving chest.

  Mikahl wiped a stray tear from his cheek.

  “Borg?” he asked. Who in all the hells is Borg?

  “—esss. He is the Southern Guardian,” the dying king rasped almost inaudibly. “Go deep into the Giant Mountains, Mik. He will find you and lead you. Deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants.”

  Unable to comprehend anything other than the fact his king was dying before his eyes, Mikahl ran to the door and ushered in the priest and the servants who were attending him before.

  He stood there, watching in horror. One of the servants helped King Balton drink from a cup, while the priest started saying a prayer that Mikahl remembered all too well from his mother’s funeral a few years past.

  Suddenly, the king’s arm shot up and he pointed directly at the door. Wide, white eyes full of authority and love locked onto Mikahl’s. The king was ordering him to go. After wiping the tears from his face, he went and did his best not to look back. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  Ruddy, the Stable Master, mumbled something angrily at Mikahl as he reentered the stalls. The man was busy readying two other horses for departure. One was already saddled and the other was waiting patiently for the half-drunken stableman. It was far too late for a jaunt through the woods. Mikahl recognized one of the horses as belonging to Lord Brach and that made him worry.

  Lord Brach, the lord of Westland’s northern territories, was Prince Glendar’s constant companion. Lord Brach and that creepy, bald-headed wizard, Pael, never seemed to leave the side of the heir to the Westland throne. Lord Boot-licker, King Balton had often called Brach in private, because the man agreed to everything that Prince Glendar or the wizard suggested. Mikahl was far from a nobleman and he didn’t meddle in the games they played, but he knew Prince Glendar was about to assume the throne now, and the rotten fool hadn’t been in his father’s favor for many years. Prince Glendar would gain the most from King Balton’s death. In Mikahl’s eyes, Prince Glendar or one of his men was most likely the murderer. Why else would they be preparing to ride at this time of the night?

>   Mikahl suddenly realized the very same thing would be said of his departure. As King Balton’s personal squire, he had enough access to have easily slipped him some poison. He would be a suspect, but Lord Gregory and his wife, Lady Trella, would vouch for his integrity. Everyone close to King Balton knew Mikahl loved and respected his king dearly. The problem was that soon-to-be King Glendar didn’t like Lord Gregory, nor did he know his own father’s heart very well. If Glendar had a part in his own father’s murder, then Mikahl could easily end up being the scapegoat. It didn’t matter at the moment though; his king had given him orders from the deathbed. He would find this giant named Borg and deliver Father Petri’s package to the King of the Giants, or he would die trying to do so.

  Mikahl didn’t want Lord Brach or his men following him. He had to find a way to slow them down. He walked over to where Ruddy was working and tapped the unsuspecting man on the shoulder. As the Stable Master turned, Mikahl slugged him heavily across the jaw. Ruddy fell into a heap on the stable’s dirty floor. Mikahl then led the two other horses to the running pen behind the stable. He sent them galloping off into the darkness with a sharp slap on their rumps.

  Wasting no time in preparing for his own departure, he mounted his horse, Windfoot, and led his packhorse out the unattended gate that opened onto the cobbled streets of the inner city. He did exactly as King Balton instructed him to do, and went straight to the chapel.

  Father Petri was expecting him. The priest seemed both sad and nervous as he led Mikahl and both of his horses up the entry steps and into the chapel.

  The chapel’s vaulted ceiling was high overhead and row after row of empty wooden pews spread out to each side. Sitting on a horse whose clomping hoof beats echoed loudly and deeply into the huge and otherwise empty chamber, Mikahl felt very out of place. As they made their way down the center aisle toward the altar, the gods and goddesses all seemed to be scowling down at him from their permanent places in the colored glass along the higher reaches of the walls. One of the horses whinnied nervously and the ghastly sound sent a chill snaking up Mikahl’s back.