In the pit of his stomach, Mikahl felt a certain icy dread, as he ran toward the clearing where Ironspike lay. Talon’s direct path spared him the short jaunt through the overly thick forest. Using the semi-dry stream bed, they went around it. The way was faster, but rockier. Even through the sparsely treed area Mikahl was charging through, the footing was loose and gravelly. At one point, a hook-thorn vine ripped at his face, and now his cheek was bleeding freely from the wide open gash the vine had caused, but he paid it no mind.
The last stretch of the way was uphill and through trees dense with undergrowth, which threatened to trip him up with his every stride. He’d left Vaegon far behind, but he didn’t dare wait for the elf to catch up with him.
Ahead, he could hear Loudin’s voice cursing defiantly over a deep, snarling growl, and the heavy thumping of wings. He had to hurry. He had to secure King Balton’s sword.
By the time he came stumbling into the clearing, he was out of breath, but that didn’t matter to him. He was forced to reorient himself because he entered the clearing from an entirely different point than he had left it. The tree he had felled was aiming in the direction they had gone to find the wolf. It lay across his path now, pointing off to his left.
To his right, by the trunk, was the hellcat that had killed Lord Gregory. It was hovering on slow, flapping wings, while clawing down at Loudin. The tattoo-covered hunter was shirtless and bleeding, but doing a fair job of keeping the creature at bay with the ax Mikahl had left behind. Somewhere, under Loudin’s bare feet, was the sword. Mikahl wasted no time charging across the clearing after it.
As he approached, he saw that Loudin’s injury wasn’t mortal. It was only a gash across his tiger-striped back that was bright and glistening with blood, even in the valley’s morning shadow.
The Seawardsman yelled, and swung the ax up wildly at the huge, menacing beast. It appeared to Mikahl, that the creature wasn’t trying very hard to attack Loudin. Surely, it could maul the hunter to pieces if it really wanted to. It became clear that it was after the sword. The hellcat was too big and too bulky to go crashing into the forest. Ironspike was at the clearing’s edge, and Loudin was right there with it.
Roaring with frustrated determination, the hellcat put its hind legs on the ground, and while folding in its wings, lashed out savagely with its fore claws. Mikahl was only ten paces away and closing fast. He didn’t even see the other dark shape swooping through the shadowed clearing at him. He heard Vaegon cry out a warning from somewhere behind him, but by the time the elf’s words registered in his brain, he was off his feet, and flailing through the air, sideways.
As the world cart-wheeled before his eyes, pain tore through his shoulder. He caught a glimpse of a sleek, shiny black scaled thing, just before the grassy earth came up, and slammed the air from his lungs.
Hyden, still lying exhausted in the ravine, cringed at Mikahl’s rough impact. He saw it all through Talon’s eyes. He wanted nothing more than to raise himself up and go running to help his friends, but his body wouldn’t cooperate with his will. The wyvern had been a surprise. At first, he thought it was a small dragon, with its sinuous body and great wingspan, but the memory of seeing a half-rotted thing in the snow as a young boy came to him.
The village men of the Tuska Clan are very much like the men of the Skyler Clan, but they live in the easternmost reaches of the Giant Mountains, where the range borders the desert. They had wing-wounded a wyvern, and followed its blood trail all the way into the lands hunted by the Skyler Clan.
Being distantly related to each other and aware of each other’s existence, primarily due to Berda and other nomadic giants, the Tuska Clan eventually sought out the Skyler Clan, seeking shelter and supplies for the long trip home. Stories were shared over a celebratory feast and Harrap brought out a skin of fire brandy he had purchased at that year’s Summer’s Day Festival.
The next day, Uncle Condlin took a handful of the curious young boys out to see the mysterious beast, whose diluted blood could supposedly be used to shape stone. Hyden remembered it now as clear as if it had been only yesterday. That wyvern hadn’t been black though, it had been a grayish brown, the color of the rocky caves in the east. Hyden remembered that its dark blood had eaten away the shafts of the spears that had finally killed it.
As he watched Vaegon try to get around the clearing to where Loudin was, by skirting the tree line, Hyden racked his brain, searching his memories of what the Tuska Clansmen had said about the wyvern, hoping to remember anything that he, or Talon, might be able to use to help them.
Vaegon darted around the edge of the forest like a startled deer, ducking this branch, leaping that root, and twisting around every clump of dead fall and undergrowth that presented itself to him. He closed the distance between him and Loudin in only a handful of heart beats. He wasn’t fast enough though.
The hellcat’s front claw caught Loudin in the chest, and ripped a trio of gouges down his body. As the hunter fell to his knees, a glistening bulge of intestine and gore bubbled out of the center furrow. The hellcat’s other fore claw, clenched around Ironspike’s scabbard beside him. Awkwardly, it began backing away from the tree line with the sword in its grasp and Mikahl’s belt dragging behind. Its wings unfurled, with a heavy snap and lifted it a hand’s breadth into the air.
Vaegon snatched the ax from the ground, and ran out after the beast. He raised the heavy headed tool over his head with both hands and hurled it at the fleeing creature as hard as he could. The hellcat rose a few more inches off the ground as the ax flew through the air, head over handle, and struck blade first into its neck just behind the ear. It stuck there a moment then fell away. The wound was deep, and probably painful, but it was far from lethal. The beast roared its displeasure at Vaegon, but still made to get away.
Loudin, still on his knees, fell forward, reaching his arms out as far as he could. His hands clasped around Mikahl’s belt, and as the horse-sized creature lifted away, he use the strength of his arms to yank at the sword. Deftly, the hellcat latched its other fore claw onto the sheath, and held it tightly.
Loudin grimaced, and pulled with all he had left in him. He came up to his knees, as the furious beast started to lift up again. He felt his guts bursting out of him, fought the pain, and the knowledge that he was as good as dead. With a mighty heave, he pulled himself to his feet, and managed to hook is arm between the hellcat’s claws, over the sheathed sword. He felt the surge of power from the hellcat’s next wing-beat lift his feet off the ground. The pain in his guts was incredible, but he held on. He swore to himself that the beast wouldn’t have Mikahl’s sword as long as he could draw breath. The beast then lifted him higher.
Vaegon felt helpless. He started to grab onto Loudin’s legs, but after seeing the two-clawed grasp the creature had on the sword, he was sure he would have only pulled Loudin free of it. The hunter’s guts were spilling now. The lining that had bulged out of his abdomen was tearing, and a coiled loop of slick, silvery intestine, dangled down by his knees.
Vaegon was certain, that at any moment, the pain of the injury would cause Loudin to let go and fall back to the earth. He grabbed up the ax, intending to take a swipe at the beast, but by then, the only things low enough for him to possibly hit, were Loudin’s dangling feet. A wing beat later, even they were up and out of the elf’s range.
A different type of roar, higher in pitch and more avian, came from where the wyvern was swooping back down at Mikahl’s prone body.
Talon was fluttering about it, slashing, and clawing at the beast’s horny, black-scaled head, trying to take it off its intended course. Vaegon charged across the clearing towards them, raising the ax over his head as he went. Apparently, Talon got a claw into the wyvern’s eye, because it forgot Mikahl for a moment, and thrashed its head about in agony while hovering a few feet off the ground. Through some warning from Talon, Mikahl managed to roll his half-dazed self out from under the angry beast. Vaegon saw the opportunity, and heaved the ax at the creature, just like he had at the hellcat. Talon barely managed to flap clear of the heavy wooden handle, as it came whooshing by. Vaegon had thrown it so hard, that Mikahl heard the powerful “WHOOMP! WHOOMP! WHOOMP!” of it spinning through the air.
The blade hit the wyvern in its face with a sickening crunch, sending it flailing into the ground, where it landed hard on its side. The splatters of blood that sprayed both Talon and Mikahl, began to sizzle and burn through feather and flesh. Instinctually, the hawkling made for water. The stream was close for the bird, whose tiny, hollow bones and body would be devastated, if the hot, acidy stuff got through its layers of feathers.
On the ground, the wyvern wheezed, sputtered, and managed to slink a few feet away, before finally falling still. All around it, everything, even the grass, was being eaten away by its corrosive blood.
Loudin’s horrifying scream filled the air, and echoed off of the hard surfaces around the valley’s rim. Mikahl rolled to his feet and followed Vaegon’s gaze with a knot of dread growing inside him. It was an awful sight to look upon, and seeing it, broke something inside Mikahl.
Loudin’s intestines had gotten hung in the branches of a tree. A few yards of guts had been pulled out of him, yet, he still hung onto the sword with both arms, as the powerful wings of the hellcat pulled, and the beast twisted and yanked, trying to get free of him and the tangle. Another cry of anguish, and pain erupted from the Seawardsman, and chilled Mikahl to the bone.
“Let it go, old man,” Mikahl whispered under his breath, but he knew in his heart that Loudin wouldn’t do it. He felt the sizzling pain of the wyvern’s blood burning his face and arms, but he ignored it. At the moment, there was no room in him to feel such trivial discomfort. He would rather lose the sword, and live his whole life in the shame of doing so, than to see his friend die this way. His very soul cried out for Loudin to let go. Tears welled in his eyes and he started to look away.
Loudin screamed again. This time, it was cut off, as another few feet of his intestines were yanked out of him. Like some macabre kite, he hung there, suspended in midair. One arm came loose from over the sheathed blade, and it looked as if the hunter was about to fall, but his other arm was crooked over the sword, and he refused to let it go.
Loudin was beyond pain now. He felt the pull against his insides, and he felt the raw, cold mountain air touching places inside him that were never meant to be exposed. He felt the tearing when the hellcat lurched, and tore more of his guts loose. Something ruptured that time, and the world was growing fuzzy and gray, and yet he still refused to let go. He tried to scream again, but only a hot whoosh of air came bubbling out of him from somewhere besides his throat. This was it then, he conceded. It was over.
Better to die for a friend, than to rot away in some woodsy cabin all alone anyway. He was done for, but as futile as all his effort seemed to be at the moment, Loudin still thought he could beat the beast.
“You fargin, flying, panther-horse hell-born bitch,” he tried to yell, but no audible sound came. “You’ll not have Mik’s sword!” he finished anyway. With the last bit of his strength, he reached out with his free hand, and grabbed Ironspike’s leather wrapped hilt, and started sliding it out of its scabbard.
Mikahl hadn’t been able to watch. His carelessness had not only cost him King Balton’s sword, but had cost his friend his life. He had failed his father and King. He had let Lord Gregory’s death be in vain. He had wasted the Giant King’s time, and on top of it all, he had killed Loudin.
What a fool he had been to have even entertained the notion that he might be a king of some sort. A King’s bastard born fool is all he was, a squire who had grown too big for his britches, and had carelessly thrown away his honor, and a dear friend’s life, on a whim. He had failed. He wasn’t worthy to be called King. He was just a fool.
Vaegon’s sudden gasp carried a tinge of hope in it. Just enough to bring Mikahl out of his shame, to look up and see what it could possibly be that mocked him so. What he saw, made his own breath catch, and drew him stumbling forward. First one step, then another, and then he was running. Ironspike was flying through the air. Its mirror smooth blade reflected the pastel colors of the morning in sparkling turns as it came spinning towards the ground. It landed blade down, sinking two thirds of its length into the earth from the momentum. Mikahl stopped and stared at it. It wavered there a moment, and then stilled. It looked more like a glimmering, jeweled cross, than a sword. He turned away from it just in time to see Loudin’s body fall crashing into the trees.
The old hunter didn’t even grunt, as his body slammed, and broke, over the heavy limbs. Mikahl prayed that his friend had died with an inner peace. Loudin’s valiant death had saved Mikahl a lifetime of shame. The man could have easily let go long ago, and died somewhat intact, and without so much excruciating pain. Mikahl swore then and there that he would never give up. Neither Loudin’s, nor Lord Gregory’s, sacrifice would be in vain.
The angry roar of the hellcat, as it circled around and dove back towards him, made Mikahl’s blood boil with rage and vengeful anger. As he pulled the sword free of the earth, he welcomed the beast’s approach. Loudin’s death couldn’t be avenged this day, Mikahl told himself. This beast was just a weapon, or a tool sent by another, but he could send a message to whomever it was that wanted Ironspike so badly, a message that was plain and clear.
Ironspike’s blade lit the clearing, like a star, and a symphony of magic filled Mikahl’s ears. The hellcat lowered its hind claws, and at a blinding speed, came swooping down on Mikahl. The surge of static heat that filled Mikahl then was tremendous. A dozen different voices sang into his brain, each one a separate melody that added to the angelic chorus in his mind. Each voice represented a different means of magical attack, and all of this, somehow, became crystal clear to him in that moment. He knew he could access them with a thought, but he knew he didn’t need them for this. He felt the time around him slow, as if the whole world, save for him, was moving through molasses. That effect, and the heat of his rage was more than enough to mark this dark thing.
The hellcat was on him now, and even though the world had slowed, the beast was coming in hard and fast. As Mikahl leapt, and spun in the air, the blue glow of his blade went through all the shades of lavender and purple, until its glow was a deep, bloody red. His head came up under the creature, and he twisted in his spin, so that its dagger-like fore claws missed his shoulders, and its hind legs swept past him. Only then, did he complete the now white-hot blade’s blinding arc.
Vaegon watched in fearful awe as Mikahl pulled the sword free of the ground, and strode forward to meet the streaking approach of the beast. The sword was bright, radiant, and quickly became the cherry color of forge heated steal. Mikahl leapt into the air, his acrobatic movement so swift, that all Vaegon could make out, was a furious blur. It was all happening so quickly, that it made the elf’s head spin.
One second, it looked as if the hellcat would grab onto the boy and carry him off, like it had done Lord Gregory. A fraction of a heartbeat later, Mikahl was behind the beast, his sword sweeping like a white-hot sheer through the creature’s rear thighs as if they were nothing more than butter. As the beast’s hind legs tumbled to the ground, free of its body, the would-be bloody stumps sizzled and smoked. The intense heat of the white-hot blade had cauterized them cleanly. A third piece of the hellcat spun smoking through the air, like a half-embered piece of firewood. Later, Vaegon would find out that it was the spiked tip of the beast’s tail, the very thing that had gouged his eye out of his face and ruined his elven sight.
The creature was ten feet past Mikahl, raising its bulk up on its wings, so that it might clear the trees, and come around again, when it realized what had happened to its hind-legs and tail. The primal shriek of terror and pain that it let out was earsplitting. It was all the legless hellcat could do to stay aloft, as it fled howling over the trees and out of the valley.
Mikahl felt no pride or joy in the rush of emotion that came to him after the beast had gone. Instead, he fell into a crumbling heap of sorrow, and cried out for the loss of his friend.
The tattoo covered Seawardsman, who would be forever immortalized in the histories of both elves and men as, “Loudin of the Reyhall,” was dead.