“Bah!” he said again, with a roll of his eyes.
“These are but foothills, compared to the heart of this mountain range,” Vaegon told Mikahl. “There are places so high above the sea, that even the valleys stay frozen year round; places that none of us could survive an hour in, much less a whole day.”
“Well, the giants can keep those places for themselves. I’ve already gotten my fill of the Highlands. If I didn’t have to be here, I would’ve left long ago.”
“Aye, we shouldn’t have to be up here this far anyway,” said Loudin. “Old Borg is either caught up in something nasty, or he’s grown lax and forgetful of his duties. I’m fairly certain that his old mind hasn’t begun to slip just yet. I imagine that somewhere along the border, something has attracted him, and is keeping him occupied for the moment.”
Loudin shrugged off his fur coat and piled it into a cushion, and then leaned back into it.
“The two other times I came up here, he met us after the first big pass. No one travels long in these mountains without his knowledge, I assure you.”
“You said that the last four nights as well. How can one giant guard the whole of the giant kingdom?” Mikahl was skeptical. He had asked Hyden the same question one day, but all he had gotten for an answer was a shrug and, “I wish I knew.”
“He doesn’t,” Loudin answered, with a sly glance at the elf. “He just guards the southern border.” They chuckled at the frustrated expression that came across Mikahl’s face.
“Bah!” Mikahl growled. “You know what I meant old man.” Then to Vaegon, who was struggling to bite back his laugh. “You too Cyclops. I want to know. How does one giant guard thousands of miles of foothills all by himself?”
Whether stunned by the well-placed, but good natured insult to his one eyed condition, or maybe just pondering his response, Vaegon paused with raised brows for a moment before responding. The elf looked angry, and possibly a bit wounded by the jab. Seconds turned into hours as the tense moment passed. Finally, as he started to reply, a grin crept across the elf’s face.
“Well Mikahl, he’s only guarding his kingdom from mere humans. How many more giants do you think he would really need?”
Mikahl didn’t realize, at first, that the elf had mocked his humanity. His mind had gone back to a memory of the bloody ordeal at Coldfrost.
He, King Balton, and Westland’s Northern Muster had battled the giants there for most of a winter a few years back. Mikahl had been told that those weren’t full blooded giants. They were a wild and primitive cross- breed, driven by an animalistic instinct. They had been eight and nine feet tall, overly hairy, with slightly snouted faces, and mouths full of sharp carnivorous teeth. They fought like they were demon-possessed.
He had just been promoted to King’s Squire then, and hadn’t earned King Balton’s full trust yet, so he hadn’t been privy to why the battle was being waged. He hadn’t been allowed to fight, even though he was one of the better swordsmen on the field, but he had seen the carnage firsthand. He had also seen the power of Ironspike. King Balton had taken quite a few giants down with it, before using it to create the magical boundary that still imprisons those Breed Giants to this day. Mikahl couldn’t realistically imagine a single giant being able to stand against Ironspike’s might, so it took some time for the joke to register in his mind. When it finally did, he didn’t think it was all that funny, but since he liked the one-eyed elf so much, he faked a laugh.
It became clear to Mikahl then, that neither of these two would-be jesters, knew exactly how the giant named Borg did his duty.
In the silence that followed, Mikahl let his mind wander further. Of course, his thoughts went to the sword and Lord Gregory’s unfathomable proclamation. Mikahl had spent a lot of time dwelling on the possibility that he was actually King Balton’s bastard. He had come to the conclusion that it was the truth. The King had gone to great lengths to train and educate him in everything, from table manners and mathematics, to military tactics and weapons play. He had been taught the qualifications and proper duties of all of Westland’s lords and nobles. He knew, from Page to Prince, what every titled person in Balton’s kingdom was supposed to be doing for the throne.
The only exception was Pael. He had never been told what the Royal Wizard’s true duties were, and when he had asked, his instructors always avoided the subject. King Balton had made sure that he understood his numbers, and the history of the land, and that he read and understood certain books out of the castle’s library. King Balton had often inquired about the contents of a book while they rode out to a stronghold, or were on a hunt.
Mikahl remembered fondly the trips to various lords’ and nobles’ holds for weddings, funerals, and other functions. King Balton never rode in the Royal Carriage. That was where Prince Glendar and the wizard always traveled. King Balton rode his horse, Firewind, Windfoot’s sire, and everywhere he went, he kept Mikahl close at hand.
There were days that he and King Balton rode surrounded by guardsmen, who kept their distance, so that he and the King could speak quietly, and there were nights where the titles of king, captain, duke and squire somehow got lost in the flames, as flasks of brandy-wine were passed around the campfire.
Looking back, Mikahl could see that he was being trained and tested all along, a lot of the time by King Balton himself. He had been raised by a father who didn’t dare claim him as his son. The idea of that stung, but not so bad that it tainted the memory. Mikahl had faith that King Balton had had good reason for the subterfuge. It was the idea that he was supposed to someday rule Westland that seemed so preposterous to him. Prince Glendar was the King now, and he surely wanted his father’s sword back. He had probably ordered that creepy wizard, Pael, to send that beast after them. Thankfully, the thing had fled. Hopefully it would stay gone.
Mikahl had to admit to himself that he liked the feel of Ironspike in his hands. Its magical symphony was glorious and thrilling to experience, but he wasn’t sure if he really wanted to be a king. The elf, who had been in the sick bed next to Lord Gregory when the old lion had told Mikahl who his father was, had later said, “Your lack of want is most likely why you were the one King Balton wanted to be his heir.”
When Mikahl had asked Vaegon what that meant, the elf said, “One who wants to be a king, obviously wants the title for all the wrong reasons. No good, reasonable, or honorable man would want to have the responsibility of ruling over others. He might accept that responsibility as his duty, but he would be wary of it, not crave it.”
Mikahl thought long and hard about that, and it made sense. Prince Glendar had always wanted to succeed his father, and Mikahl couldn’t imagine that spoiled brat being either fair or honorable. He hated to think what sort of shape Westland was in at the moment. Mikahl figured that chaos reigned between the land holders, the nobility, and the new king.
He was torn from his thoughts, by the sudden appearance of Talon fluttering into the cavern. The hawkling landed near the fire, and began chirping, and pacing back and forth excitedly. Mikahl and Loudin both looked at Vaegon with alarm on their faces. The elf had been traveling with Hyden when they had met them, so it was up to him to interpret what the bird was trying to convey.
The possibilities of mishap were endless in this sort of terrain; falling rock, falling ice, collapsing footholds, not to mention the vast array of predators that called these inhospitable mountains home. Everyone’s mind raced through the myriad possibilities of harm that might have befallen Hyden. Loudin went so far as to throw on his coat and start digging through the packs for rope.
“Is Hyden alright?” Vaegon asked Talon.
He wasn’t as worried as the other two. He was sure that if Hyden was in a dire situation, Talon would be pecking on one of their heads with his sharp beak, or trying to pull one of them up to his feet, with a claw full of hair. Neither Hyden, nor his hawkling familiar, were capable of much subtlety.
The bird squawked in response to the question. Vaegon took that as a negative.
“What then?” he asked.
Loudin paused his rummaging.
“Has he found Borg?” he asked hopefully.
Talon cawed out, and leapt into the air. After circling the cavern once, he landed on Loudin’s head, and cooed. An almost visible blanket of relief lifted from them all.
“I think we should make up some sort of code to talk with Hyden through Talon,” Mikahl said, while giving the hawkling a peculiar look. “Hyden, have Talon peck Loudin’s head twice, if you agree.”
