him to tremble so? He didn’t think so, but he was terrified. The Duke was almost on him now, and Mikahl couldn’t see even the beginnings of fear in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes. The man was one of the most ruthless killers in the entire realm, and Mikahl knew that he was in serious trouble.
When Duke Fairchild saw that the terrified boy was holding Ironspike, he hesitated. Surely, Lord Brach and Prince Glendar would’ve told him that the squire had stolen it. Unless they didn’t know that it was missing. With all the worry over Balton’s death, it must have gone unnoticed. The idea that returning it to the new king was far more important than keeping the squire alive, flashed into his mind like a whip crack. Convinced now that sparing the boy was no longer a priority, and that Ironspike was, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, and charged.
The moment of indecision that Mikahl saw in the Coldfrost Butcher’s eyes, coincided with the brilliant surge of energy that shot through his entire body. Suddenly, his blood felt charged, and his skin prickled, from head to toe. It was as if he were trapped inside a bolt of lightning. The world around him began to move in slow motion, and he was compelled to step to his right. The Duke’s sword was slicing downward at his left, and realizing that it was a committed stroke, Mikahl waited until the last second, and spun across the charging horse’s path. Deftly, he ducked under the horse’s chin, and came twisting up on the Duke’s unprotected, left hand side. Riding the momentum of his spin, as if it were a tidal wave, he continued around again. Ironspike was humming now, the sword’s razor sharp blade was glowing a pale pastel shade of blue. Mikahl could feel, and hear its power, coursing through him, electrifying his body, filling his head with an angelic symphony of glorious music. He, and the sword, for that moment at least, had become one.
As Duke Fairchild’s sword went slicing through the air where Mikahl had just been, Mikahl came around swinging with all his might from the other side of him. Ironspike’s magical blade cleaved into the Duke’s back, just above the waist, with little or no resistance at all. Plate mail, padded leather, and then flesh and spine alike, were sheared through. Mikahl barely had time to pull the blade tip in as it came out of the Butcher’s belly. If he hadn’t, it would’ve hacked right into the back of the Duke’s horse’s neck.
Chapter 17
Mikahl tried to run away from the top half of Duke Fairchild’s body as it tumbled away from the terrified horse. An exposed root caught his boot, and he half stumbled, half fell to the ground. He ended up on his knees, right in front of Ironspike’s scabbard. The rush of power that had just consumed him so completely, the electric tingle, the harmonic symphony, and the sensation of the world around him moving at a snail’s pace, was quickly abating. Where the magic of the sword had just filled him, he was now left with an empty hollowness. He was more than a little afraid. It was all he could do to get Ironspike back in its sheath, before he collapsed to the ground in a trembling heap.
It took a few, long moments for Loudin to move from where he was standing. He was in sort of a shocked daze, a trance, brought on by awe, fear, and more than a little disgust, at what he had just seen happen. What held his attention at the moment had his stomach in his throat. The bottom half of the man Mikahl had just cleaved, was still sitting in the saddle. Booted feet were still in the stirrups, and the horse was walking in a nervous circle, as if the legs and the arse of the dead man were still somehow guiding it. Blood and entrails were everywhere. It took all of Loudin’s willpower to keep from vomiting. He knew he had to go after the horse. They needed the horse too badly to let it go. Even if they didn’t need the beast, he would’ve gone after it. With half of a man’s weight of raw meat riding on its back, the horse wouldn’t last the night out here in the deep forest. The archer’s horse was as good as dead, he knew, and he felt sorry for wounding it to kill its rider. He had done what he had to do to stay alive though, and he reminded himself of that fact when the guilt of harming the beast crept up on him.
He couldn’t help but think, as he motivated himself to go after the bodiless horseman, that the scavengers would eat well this night. Three men and a dead horse would draw a crowd. The crowd, in turn, would probably draw a big lizard. Under normal circumstances, he would’ve wanted to take advantage of the carnage and try to trap it when it came, but these circumstances were as far from normal as any he could imagine.
When Mikahl finally sat up and looked around, he couldn’t see Loudin anywhere. He immediately looked for the blind. It was still there. He took a deep breath, and let out a long sigh of relief. He knew that the old hunter wouldn’t leave his precious lizard skin behind. There was a horse tethered near the blind. It was the one that belonged to the man who had gotten his arm caught in Loudin’s trap, the man Mikahl had killed with an arrow in cold blood.
Another horse was snorting and limping badly. It was out in the forest a little ways and obviously scared. When it turned, Mikahl saw that its hind quarters were covered in bright, red blood. He sat Ironspike against one of the trees that formed the blind, and found his bow. He put an arrow to the string and made his way toward the injured animal, talking gently to it as he went. When he had a sure shot, he loosed. The horse bolted deeper into the woods, but fell headlong into a thicket, after only a few dozen strides. Mikahl was glad that his arrow had struck true. The beast had surely suffered enough already.
On his way back toward the blind, he saw the bottom half of the Duke’s body lying at the edge of the camp. He was forced to take a knee, when the sheer magnitude of what he had done, and the power that he had felt while doing it, came back to him. He made a decision then and there not to use Ironspike again unless he had no other choice. As glorious as it made him feel, the idea that he had somehow violated the memory of the King he loved so much, was stronger. He felt as if he had taken something that wasn’t his. He decided to take the Coldfrost Butcher’s sword. If he could manage to get the scabbard unbuckled without vomiting, he could use it. It was obviously quality steel and would do just fine if the need arose again.
He had just gotten the body turned over, and was gagging his way through the gore to get at the buckles, when Loudin called out his name from the distance. The sound startled him so badly, that he nearly fell over backwards from his squatted position. The belt had been broken, or more accurately, it had been nearly sheered through. As quickly as he could, he collected the blood soaked sheath and stumbled away.
Loudin was on his own horse, and had Windfoot and the Duke’s big destrier in tow. The bald headed hunter didn’t look pleased as he approached. His whole head was as red as an apple, and it made his tattoos all the more menacing.
“Tell me again that you’re not just a thief of noblemen’s swords!” He reined his mount to a stop in front of Mikahl. “Make me believe you boy, or I’m done with you.”
Mikahl looked down at Duke Fairchild’s bloody scabbard in his hand, and let out a sigh of frustration. He was a man of his word, and he had sworn to tell Loudin the whole of it. He would keep his word. He just hoped that he wouldn’t live to regret doing it. He had to let this good-hearted hunter know what danger the knowledge would put him in though. It was only right to do so.
“I owe you the whole of it friend,” Mikahl spoke seriously, with his eyes looking directly into Loudin’s. “It’s a tale that comes with more than words though. Your life will be at risk for just knowing it.”
“Aye,” Loudin nodded.
He was already sure that the boy was more than a common thief, and he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to hear the story behind all this mess. He was a known poacher, and he had already helped Mikahl kill a Westland nobleman, he reminded himself. The halved man’s rank was as obvious as night or day. If he had a lick of sense to himself, he would just kill the boy, and ride away. Nobody could ever tie him into this treachery. He would have enough horses to carry his lizard skin to Summer’s Day too. The animals would blend in there and draw no ill attention at all. He could probably sell them for a bit of coin to a Valleyan breeder who would know how to cover the mark they bore.
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.”
