“This is the message for you to deliver.” He bent down, lifting something heavy from the floor, and offered it up to Mikahl. It was a long, black leather sleeve, such as might be used to protect a prized longbow or an expensive two-piece staff. Mikahl carefully secured the scroll case in his saddlebag and took the item.
He knew what it was the moment he felt the weight of it in his hands. The consequences of having it came flooding into his brain and he almost dropped it in fear. He had to search deeply in his heart for courage. It was Ironspike, King Balton’s notorious sword. He knew because he had polished it a thousand times as part of his duty as the king’s squire. He had seen firsthand the wealth of gold and jewels inlaid into the leather-wrapped hilt and cross guard. He had seen the covetous looks of those who longed to possess it, and he had seen the fear it could inspire. He had watched the magical blade glow red hot as it clipped Lord Clyle’s insolent head from his shoulders, and he remembered vividly seeing King Balton dispatch at least a dozen of the feral half-breed giants with it during the Battle of Coldfrost. Its actual weight was slight compared to his old iron sword, but holding it now made Mikahl want to crumble.
Father Petri could tell that Mikahl knew what he had cradled in his arms. It was also obvious that the implications were not lost on the boy.
“You are not to use it, unless it is to preserve your life, or to maintain possession of the blade.” The priest softened his serious look. “But always remember that your life is more important than the sword.”
Mikahl looked at the priest with furrowed brows. This was the deadliest of burdens for him to carry and he knew it.
“To use it would attract men to me like carrion to a carcass,” he said. “How am I to-?”
“We!” Father Petri snapped, raising a hand to halt Mikahl’s protests. His voice was harsh and the man looked distressed to say the least.
“We do not have to understand the tasks we are given, Squire.”
The use of Mikahl’s meager title, and the reference it implied as to the origin of his orders, permeated the priest’s words.
“We have to do as we are told, Mikahl, and do it the best we can.”
Mikahl swallowed hard. He felt the need to be on his way. Prince Glendar, soon-to-be King Glendar, would most likely want Ironspike immediately. Once the sword was found to be missing, Glendar’s cronies, and his wizard, Pael, would be after it. Mikahl could see it now: a dozen lords and all of their men would be hunting him, a huge price on his head; bounty men and trackers, coming from all reaches of the realm to try to claim the reward that King Glendar would surely offer. Suddenly, the Giant Mountains seemed like the safest place for him to be, and with each passing moment, he found more and more reasons to reach them quickly.
After a brief goodbye, Father Petri cranked open the great door and Mikahl eased out into the night. A glance up at Lakeside Castle put a twist in Mikahl’s guts and a lump in his throat. He had lived there most of his life. His mother had been a kitchen hand, and he himself had been in the service of the kingdom in one way or another since he could walk. At first, he had been a message runner and a candle-snuffer. Then, he was a stable hand and even a scribe’s aide for a while. As he grew older, he began training with the soldiers, and had excelled with his skills on the weapons yard to the point of notice. Lord Gregory had taken him on as a squire, and he had spent almost three years down at Lake Bottom Stronghold learning the proper ways to behave while in the service of royalty. Other than the not so distant traveling he’d done with the king as his squire, he had never been away from this place. Now, he was leaving his home, and he doubted that he would ever be able to return.
Because his mother had died, he didn’t have any real family here, but both King Balton and Lord Gregory had become father figures to him. He had never known who his real father was, but he had never really been without guidance until now. Now, he was alone.
Knowing that his possession of Ironspike was a secret known only to a dying king, and his loyal priest, Mikahl realized that he would soon be branded a thief of the highest order, or worse, a murderer. Ruddy, the stableman, would tell everyone about Mikahl’s late night preparations. Being the King’s squire meant that he would have had full access to the King’s private armory. Not only would he be blamed for poisoning the king, he would most likely be blamed for taking the sword as well. These things were forgotten, though, as he looked back at his home. He was on a journey to meet a giant he didn’t know, with an entire kingdom soon to be on his tail. He couldn’t imagine being any more alone than he felt at that moment. He took a deep breath and sighed at the sheer enormity of it all.
The castle no longer looked inviting or homey. Its looming, massive gray bulk, with the half-dozen squat towers, and the few taller, narrower spires, suddenly seemed like a dark upthrust of teeth. Would he ever be able to come back? He took a few minutes to say goodbye silently to his mother, and then he wiped the tears from his cheeks. King Balton’s voice came to him gently and reassuringly. “Think, then act,” it said in his mind. It was one of the King’s favorite sayings. When indecision halted the progress of a situation, or things came to an impasse, he would say, “Think, then act.”
Think, then act. Mikahl repeated the mantra to himself.
Reluctantly, he spurred Windfoot away from the stinking discharge stream and went deeper into the Northwood. He rode like that for a while, until he was sure that Castleview, the city that grew from the base of Lakeside Castle’s outer wall, was far behind him. It was dark, and he was surrounded by the thick of the forest, but he thought he knew exactly where he was. Now, all he had to do was figure out a way to reach his destination, without being caught.
The distant sound of horses’ hooves, pounding on a hard-packed road, caused a nearby owl to burst into flight. Mikahl froze, trying to discern over the pounding of his heart, just how close to him those hoof beats were. He realized that he was very close-far too close-to the Northroad. He was relieved to hear that the rider was racing toward the castle, not away from it. It was probably just a messenger from Portsmouth or Crossington, nothing out of the ordinary.
He had a choice to make. He could chance the road, make time, and risk being seen, or he could continue through the Northwood, and arrive at the Midway Passage road somewhere beyond Crossington. One way he would be able to enter the Reyhall Forest without being seen, but the other way would take him there a full day sooner. He didn’t want to be seen in Crossington. It was a fairly large town, but the people were always alert to late night travelers. Many a bandit roamed those roads, searching for easy victims this time of year. The Summer’s Day travelers were about, and most of them were as careless as they come. If he went through the woods and bypassed the town, there was the chance that Glendar, or more likely his wizard, Pael, would have people looking for him on the Midway Passage before he even reached it.
“Think, then act!” the words sounded audible this time. Before he knew it, he had spurred Windfoot toward the road. For the sake of the gods, you’re the king’s own squire and everybody knows it, he told himself. No one outside of the castle knew that the king had been poisoned yet. If anyone tried to stop him, he could talk his way out of it. No one would doubt him; his saddle had the royal seal embroidered into it, and Windfoot was a destrier of obvious castle stock. Once Windfoot, and the packhorse, were on the hard-packed road, he gradually worked both animals into a steady gallop. He doubted anyone would have the courage to question him.
He made the right choice. By dawn, Crossington was a few miles behind him, and he didn’t think a single soul had noticed his early morning passing. The cutoff road that connected the Northroad to the Midway Passage avoided going through Crossington proper, and it had been deserted. Only a light scattering of cottages and farmhouses were on the eastern side of the crossroads town anyway. The Midway Passage, however, was normally a heavily traveled cross-country trade route, but even so, the whole of the sun was completely in the sky before he saw another person. An old shepherd, who was obviously driving his sheep to the shear-house in town, urged his animals out of Mikahl’s way with an apologetic wave. Once the man was out of sight, Mikahl decided to rest the horses.
He let them graze at the roadside, while he enjoyed the cool freshness of the late spring morning. He had another choice to make soon, but he was too caught up in the peaceful morning to let it worry him. Over the course of the night, he had decided that he would take this one day at a time and try to enjoy what he could of it. Summer was ready to take over. Birds soared high overhead, and the hum of various insects filled the air. He watched them as they buzzed back and forth between the colorful patches of wildflowers that dotted the gentle, southward rolling hills. Eventually, the land in that direction flattened and became a patchwork of golden brown crop fields, but here, it served as grazing ground for the many herd animals on their way to market.
Ahead and to the north, like a great green fog hovering heavy on the surface of the land, was the Reyhall Forest. It extended from the road as far north as the eye could see. Behind Mikahl, there was nothing but trouble,
