Skinning the huge barkskin lizard would’ve been an easy task if Mikahl hadn’t felt like a one-eyed sack of broken bones.
Upon waking, he found that one cheek had swollen his eye closed, and that his body ached and burned in places that he never even knew existed. Loudin, the hunter, seemed to be in a hurry, but he didn’t push Mikahl too hard. Mikahl was glad of it because it took most of the morning just to get all his parts moving properly. After that, besides the pain, he was able to help get things done in a reasonably expedient fashion.
Once the lizard skin was sliced away from the beast and rolled up like a castle carpet, Mikahl washed the gore from himself in the pond. The cold water eased the pain and swelling in his face. This, in turn, eased the anger he felt when he found out that his old sword had been badly bent during the creature’s death throes. All of that was forgotten though, as a flood of embarrassment washed over him. Loudin had found his abandoned bow and was laughing at his shame.
Loudin rigged the surprisingly lightweight roll of skin between their two horses in a way that allowed him and Mikahl to still ride them. Windfoot had to walk directly behind Loudin’s roan, and Mikahl had to keep the distance between them from stretching or shrinking too much. The amount of attention this required kept his mind off of his pain as they traveled. The whole situation was awkward. Having the long, bulky tube of rolled skin tethered alongside the horses caused Mikahl and Loudin both to have to sit with one leg cocked wide and thrown over the roll. Today was right leg day, Loudin had explained. Tomorrow, he would rig the roll on the other side of the saddles, so that their left side would suffer the uncomfortable position. Mikahl didn’t complain. In his battered condition, walking would have been far worse than riding.
Most of the Reyhall Forest was openly spaced and easy to traverse, with little undergrowth and plenty of shade, but a few places were extremely dense. The going seemed slow. More than once, they had to dismount and cut a path through the underbrush, or maneuver the horses around closely spaced obstacles so that the skin didn’t get snagged, or torn, or pulled out of its bindings. For the most part though, the spaces between the old tree trunks were wide enough that a small wagon could’ve probably made it through. But only if the driver didn’t mind his tracks looking like a snake trail.
Considering that they hadn’t gotten underway until early afternoon, they had traveled a great distance by nightfall. When they stopped for the night, it was nearly full dark. Mikahl built a small fire, while Loudin unrigged the lizard skin from the saddles, and hoisted it up off the ground with ropes he’d thrown over some tree limbs. He explained as he worked that keeping the roll off the ground would keep insects and varmints out of it, but Mikahl was softly snoring before the old hunter had finished speaking.
Mikahl wasn’t sure how long he had slept. It was still dark, and the fire was nothing more than a pile of glowing embers when he woke. Above the natural and chaotic chorus of insects and other nocturnal creatures of the forest, the rhythmic, snorting growl of Loudin’s snoring filled the night.
Mikahl’s aching body protested as he sat up. He almost cried out from the pain caused by the movement, but he managed to bite it back. As he caught his breath, the faint outline of Windfoot and Loudin’s roan jostling on their picket lines caught his eye and startled him.
He spent a few minutes rolling and rubbing his neck and shoulders, and then craned his head back. He searched the underside of the forest’s thick canopy for any sign of the sky. He wanted to see the moon, or at least a few stars. He found neither. He harrumphed with frustration, went to his saddle bags, and rummaged for some food. Ironspike was there; safe in its leather sleeve, and the sight of it caused his curiosity to take a hold of him.
He checked to make sure that Loudin was sleeping deeply; by the sound of the snoring, Mikahl was confident that he wouldn’t wake anytime soon. Dawn was still a few hours away, so this was about as much privacy as he could expect to ever have. He took a deep breath, shoved the hunk of cheese he was eating into his mouth, and held it between his teeth. With his hands now free, he unstrapped the leather bag that protected, and concealed the sword, and carried it back to his bedroll.
He’d seen the sword a thousand times, while it was hanging menacingly from King Balton’s hip. He even got to handle it, but only when he was cleaning and polishing it. The blade had served as a warning to those who thought to cross the old man, and it gave comfort to those who looked to him for protection. Mikahl remembered cleaning the battle gore from its gleaming surfaces a few years ago, after one of the battles up in Coldfrost. More recently, he had wiped away a Dakaneese sell-sword’s blood from its razor edge after he had been beheaded for robbing and killing a Portsmouth merchant. Mikahl had polished the sword’s beautifully etched blade and its jeweled hilt a score of times, and could remember every single one of them. All of those memories caused him to think about King Balton. He started to take the sword out of its protective cover but stopped as a flood of warm, salty tears poured over his swollen cheeks.
He missed his king. The old man had been wise and kind. Except for the time Mikahl had gone exploring off into the Northwood without telling anyone where he was going, he had never so much as cuffed him on the head. Most young squires got whacked regularly, when they messed up, or caused problems. When Mikahl did wrong, he usually got a fatherly lecture.
Mikahl missed the castle too. The room he shared with the King’s two Royal Pages was warm and close to the kitchens. He had ruled the roost there. He tried to wipe away his tears, but found that his face hurt too badly to touch. It wouldn’t have done any good anyway, already more tears were falling. It was as if a dam had broken inside him. The idea that King Balton was dead, and that he could never go back home again wouldn’t leave his mind. It was a long time before sleep found him again, but thankfully it did.
He woke, groggily, to the smell of cooking meat, and was still clutching the covered King’s sword as if it were Lissy, the cook’s skinny niece, who often snuck into his chamber back in the castle when the nights were cold. The idea that he had taken the sword out of its place on his saddle, and that it was semi-exposed, brought him out of his slumber quickly. He didn’t begin to relax until the bundle was secured back in its place.
The old hunter watched him curiously out of the corner of his eye but said nothing about the peculiar behavior.
The breakfast meat was tough and stringy, but filling. Mikahl didn’t ask what it was, because the animal’s innards, and its pelts, still sat at the edge of the camp, and he didn’t want Loudin to know that he didn’t recognize the remains. He didn’t want to be thought of as a fool. He searched his memory for any sort of a creature that had fur such a bright shade of red, but couldn’t think of any. This lack of knowledge only served to remind him of how far out of his element he was.
He needed Loudin, he realized then. The hunter said he knew a giant, and Mikahl wanted desperately to ask him about that, but he hadn’t yet. He decided that he would offer Loudin his share of the proceeds from the lizard’s skin, and the bag full of golden coins he had hidden deep in Windfoot’s saddle bags, as payment to guide him into the mountains. He hoped that after he finished his current business at Summer’s Day, that Loudin would be employable. He was finding that he didn’t relish the idea of venturing into those infamously treacherous mountains alone.
“You’re looking better this morn,” Loudin said, as he stood, and began unlacing his britches.
The old hunter pulled out his manhood, and started pissing out the campfire. Mikahl took the action as a sign that he needed to get moving. He had no desire to watch the hunter relieve himself, so he put his back to the man, wolfed down his breakfast, and rolled up his blankets. A few minutes later, they were underway. Both had their left legs hung next to their saddles, out and over the roll of lizard’s hide.
It was a beautiful day. Birds fluttered about from tree to tree, and insects buzzed around, intent on their business. The occasional squirrel or rabbit darted away from the sounds of their passage. The forest’s shade was pierced here and there with uniformly angled shafts of sunlight. Flecks of dust and pollen glided through them sparkling golden in the air. Just before they stopped for an afternoon meal, a brown and yellow striped limb lion growled down at them from above. Loudin yelled at it sharply, and it went bounding away from tree branch to tree branch, like some gigantic squirrel. A slow shower of green leaves floated down to the forest floor behind it. Mikahl was amazed. The cat had been about twice the size of any of the mousers he’d seen roaming the castle back home, but its growl had been as deep and intimidating as that of one of the wild lions that roamed the Westland Plains. Loudin cursed the fact that he hadn’t had his bow ready. Apparently, the tree cats tasted extremely good, for the hunter talked about the missed opportunity throughout their whole stop.
They ate the last of Mikahl’s bread and some more of his cheese. Loudin shared some salted dried beef he had stashed, made a joke about how much cheese Mikahl had eaten, and how it had already plugged his bowels completely. Determined to have fresh meat for supper, Loudin strung his bow and indicated that Mikahl should do the same. After that, they mounted up and got back under way.
Mikahl got a glimpse of what they had eaten for breakfast when Loudin’s arrow narrowly missed a fox-like creature that had bright red fur splotched with gray. Mikahl had to laugh as it bounded away through the forest to Loudin’s curses.
“What’s so funny, boy?” the old man asked.
“It’s a wonder that you could hit wood in all this forest, as bad as you aim.”
“So, you was the jester back in that castle you came from,” Loudin snorted at his own wit. “No wonder they sent you away. You’re far from funny.”
Being called a fool, sent a rush of prideful anger through Mikahl, and he blurted his words without thinking.
“I’m the squire to the King himself,” he boasted. “And I could best you with the bow any time you -” He let his voice trail off as he realized what his stupid slip of the tongue had just cost him.
“Aye! The Kings own squire!” Loudin laughed. “And I suppose that bundle you’re so protective of is old Ironspike herself.”
Mikahl’s heart stopped in his chest. How could he know? Had he gone through Windfoot’s pack while he was asleep? Had he -?
“Maybe on a practice field, loosing at targets, you could best me boy,” Loudin continued. “But when what you’re trying to kill is looking to make you its next meal, then by the Gods, lad, it would be dining on the King’s own squire.”
It took a moment for Mikahl to understand that Loudin had been mocking him. He wanted to defend himself, but he thought better of it. The comment about him carrying Ironspike, he realized now, had only been spoken in jest. Loudin knew nothing about his burden. It was a welcome relief, but Mikahl wished that he hadn’t come off like some spoiled castle born brat in the verbal exchange.
“It is true that I am out of place,” Mikahl said, after a time.
He felt the strong urge to try and gain back any respect he might’ve lost with his childish boasting. “I just want -”
“You’ve got the balls of a man and the brains of a boy!” Loudin laughed. “It’s a common enough ailment for young men. Be we castle raised, or ship born, we all go through it, lad.”
They rode on in silence for a long while. Once, Loudin stopped his horse, and raised his hand, with a hiss of warning. They sat there, as still as stone, and Mikahl tried desperately to hear what it was that had the hunter cupping his hands to his ear.
The pace quickened after that. Mikahl wanted to ask why, but the look of intense concern that formed on the hunter’s face since they stopped, kept him from it. He dared not make an unnecessary sound. It was growing dark around them when Mikahl finally mustered the courage to speak.
“Are we going to stop soon?” he asked, as quietly as he could manage.
“Aye,” Loudin whispered back to him with that same alarming intensity. “We ain’t stoppin’ for long though.”
When they did stop, Mikahl learned that they weren’t going to make a camp. Loudin quickly put away his bow, and after rummaging through his saddle bags, produced three iron-jawed snap traps. It took him only a few moments to set them in a row across the path they had been traveling. Then, after kicking brush and leaves over them, he went to his packs again. It was so dark, that Mikahl couldn’t tell what the man was doing.
“Cut me a good sized chunk of your cheese, Mik,” the hunter whispered.
When Mikahl handed Loudin what he had asked for, he saw that the man was holding a silver coin, or maybe a button up to see how it reflected in the forest night. Loudin took the object, the cheese, and something else that Mikahl couldn’t see back to where he had set the traps. Curiosity was gnawing at Mikahl’s guts like a starving dog. The sensation only worsened when Loudin didn’t mount back up, but instead led them cautiously away from the area on foot.
It seemed an eternity before the hunter finally broke the silence.
“Stay on your horse, Mik,” he whispered.
Moonlight reflected off of Loudin’s shiny, tattoo covered head and caught the whites of his eyes. Mikahl shivered at the sight. The old hunter could have been one of the forest’s creatures, or a monster out of some bard’s tale. At that moment, he looked anything but human.
“Something’s following us,” He whispered to Mikahl. “We’re not stopping again this night.”
“What is it?” Mikahl asked the dark empty place where the hunter had just been.
“I’m hoping to know soon enough.”
Loudin’s voice came from somewhere ahead of Mikahl now. Mikahl guessed correctly that Loudin was getting back on his horse.
Windfoot had been following Loudin’s roan long enough now that he kept himself the proper distance behind, without Mikahl having to worry about it. This made riding through the darkened forest an easy task, but it left Mikahl’s mind idle enough to wonder over the hundreds of possibilities of who, or what, could be behind them.
The insects’ nocturnal song was a constant, but each time a bird fluttered from the trees, or leaves rustled in the distance, Mikahl’s heart boomed through his chest. He told himself over and over again to relax, but no sooner would he calm himself, than another sound would erupt out of the darkness to startle him. Just when he finally became used to the strange symphony of the night, everything hushed to a dead silence around him.
A horribly chilling scream pierced the air like an ax cleaving flesh. Whatever it was, it almost sounded human.
Windfoot balked then tried to rear up, causing Loudin’s roan to try to bolt. Luckily, the roll of lizard skin was well secured to each of the saddles. Mikahl and Loudin were taken on a short, wild ride through the darkness, but they weren’t separated from the horses.
When Loudin finally got them stopped, and had calmed the animals somewhat, he turned and glared at Mikahl. Even in the darkness, Mikahl could tell that the hunter’s expression was anything but kind.
“I don’t know who you really are Mik, or what it is that you’ve done.” The words were growled through clenched teeth. “But I can tell you that those men who are following us aren’t after me!”