escaped from the Seal before Shokin had been torn in two. A pair of nether born wyverns, all acid-mouthed and angry, answered the call. He ordered one of them to track down and kill the wizard who had defied him. The other he commanded to find and aid the hellcat that had once been his familiar, Inkling.
The search for Pavreal’s sword took on a new sense of priority in Pael’s mind. The part of him that was Shokin feared it, and for good reason. Though Pael thought it very unlikely that a mere squire might find a way to thwart his plans, the boy was apparently King Balton’s son and therefore he was a threat. Actually he was the only threat. Ironspike’s magic was the only thing in the realm that could possibly stop him now. Once he had it, and the power of the Wardstone in Xwarda, the whole world would be forced to kneel before him.
Pael couldn’t help but laugh out maniacally at the thought. Things had changed. He was in a far better position at this point than he had ever expected to be. New plans would have to be made. Pael couldn’t see any reason to wait until spring to attack Xwarda. With his newfound power he could conquer what was left of the mainland Kingdoms before the weather set in, and spend the winter months learning how to manipulate the Wardstone so that when spring did come he could tear through the elven forests on his way to take Afdeon from the giants.
Of all the men who could hear the demon-wizard’s hysterical giggling glee, King Glendar was the only one who wasn’t unnerved by it. To him, the psychotic sound was akin to the cooing love words a young mother might speak as she kissed her child on the brow at bedtime.
Chapter 36
In the Giant Mountains, they found it hard to leave the sheltered cavern. Especially Mikahl. Even after the day-long descent into the warmer, almost spring-like forested valley below, he found he missed the place.
He decided later, while they set up camp in a densely canopied area of the valley floor, that it was the moments of camaraderie and brotherly affection, more than the cavern itself that had marked it in his mind. If the death of his King, and Lord Gregory’s dismal fate hadn’t been lingering in the back of his mind, he would’ve considered the last few days good times.
After the fire was blazing, and a haunch of the meat Hyden had hunted had been roasted, they all bundled down and listened as Vaegon told them the tale of King Speran.
King Speran was the first of the great Kings of Men. Until he came along, many lesser Kings had ruled the divided lands, but Speran marched an army of magi across the lands south of the Giant Mountains and united all the humans under his banner. In his honor, they called the great unified kingdom, Speraland, but that was long ago.
The elves, until then, had kept themselves hidden in the Evermore Forest.
“Our magical cities were impossible for you humans to find,” Vaegon chuckled kindly, and added: “They still are.”
Illvan, an influential elf in those days, feared that the might of all of the humans put together could prove to be a threat to his people. He decided to send forth emissaries, bearing gifts in hope that the two races might co- exist in harmony. A magical bow was one of those gifts.
King Speran treated with the elves willingly, and a relationship began to form. Through the elves, the humans learned about the giants, the fair folk, and many other things as well. For an age, all was well. In that time, the human king slew a giant serpent, sailed the seas, and discovered the island that is now called Salazar, and the other smaller islands around it. The humans fought, but couldn’t kill, a mighty dragon, and later, with the help of the dwarves, found the Wardstone.
As Vaegon told of these deeds, Hyden found himself thinking of the betrayal King Speran’s great grandson had made against the world.
Berda had told of the sacrifice of the firstborn, and the “Awakening” of the dark ones, and all of the horrible times that followed.
For the first time in his life, Hyden began to understand why the elves loathed the humans so much. There was a reason why all of the other races kept a wary eye on human happenings. The merry race of dwarves had been all but killed off in the many wars that followed the Awakening. The fair folk, who once sang and danced around the monolith without a care in the world, had supposedly hidden themselves away from the rest of the world. It made Hyden feel a little ashamed of his race, especially those kingdom born men whose lives seemed to only revolve around status, wealth and power.
Hyden was glad Mikahl wasn’t like that. If it was true, what Lord Gregory had said, someday Mikahl might be the King of all those men. Hyden decided that it would be a grand thing if Mikahl could reunite the kingdoms, and bring about an age where even the fair folk would feel safe enough to come out and dance again. What a time that would be.
Hyden drifted off to sleep on those thoughts. He dreamt of a time, a distant world, where all was truly well. Then, he soared over a future just as wondrous, on the wings of his hawkling familiar.
Mikahl woke early. He was determined not to be the butt of another jest.
As frigid and chilly as the valley was this morning, he found he wasn’t freezing. His companions, his friends, he corrected himself, had meant well enough. They just didn’t understand the way a royal court worked. The idea that he might someday have to try to fill King Balton’s boots was daunting. The fact that he might have to face down King Glendar, and the creepy wizard Pael to earn that position, was unfathomable. He had no direction, no idea what to do, or where he should go to find allies. He was as lost as he could imagine a man could be. So what if the sword glowed when he used it. How did that make him a King? How was the strange symphony that filled his mind when he held Ironspike, supposed to help them?
He was hoping beyond hope, that King Aldar, the Giant King, might lend him aid. With an army of giants behind him, removing Glendar from the throne wouldn’t be so hard. He didn’t really think that would happen though. He had no idea what to expect from the giants. Out of respect, and his sense of duty, he hadn’t broken the seal on King Balton’s letters, but he held hope that they might explain some of this madness.
He decided that some hard labor might clear his head, or at least warm his blood. The sky was rosy, lit by the rising sun. No direct sunlight had found the deep valley shadow depths yet, but there was enough light to work by. He took the ax that Hyden’s uncle had given them and made his way out into the woods.
He found an open clearing with a still standing, yet dead pine tree, at its edge. He decided that he was far enough away from the camp that the noise shouldn’t bother the others. After unbuckling Ironspike and laying it out of the way, he started to chop down the old tree.
Mikahl’s steady, and repetitive chopping, brought Vaegon awake after a while. His elven vision might be ruined, but his other senses were the keener for it. The idea of having to actually chop a tree went against all his elven beliefs. He could tell by the sound the steel ax head made, as it thumped into the wood, that the tree had died a few winters ago. The horror the sound might have caused him was thankfully avoided.
Curious as to why a castle born man might be chopping wood, especially when they had all agreed the night before to find a more suitable campsite to spend the next few nights, Vaegon bundled in his fur cloak, and trekked out after the sound.
Just as he stepped into the clearing, the long, straight shaft of the dead pine started its slow, creaking arc down toward the open ground. The thick trunk slapped the ground hard, breaking off several of the branches that radiated out from it. It rolled slightly and finally settled.
Vaegon saw Mikahl wince at the loud crash, and the crunching noise of the breaking wood. Did the boy actually think he could quietly fell a tree?
Mikahl greeted him with a smile. Vaegon’s face must have shown his curiosity, because Mikahl answered his unasked question between chops, as he took the ax to the lower limbs that still remained.
“Hard work is a sure cure for a troubled mind,” Mikahl repeated the mantra that the old Weapons Master of Lakeside Castle had drilled into his head after his mother had died.
The ax fell again, and a piece of bark flew off to the side.
“I apologize if I woke you, Sir Vaegon.” Another chop, and this time a thick, white triangular piece of wood went spinning away. “Did I wake the others?” Another chop, then Mikahl put the ax head in the dirt, leaned on the shaft, and looked at the elf through troubled eyes.
