Vaegon watched over Mikahl until Hyden finally returned from the ravine. Both the humans were exhausted, so the elf took on the task of cutting Loudin’s body down out of the trees.
It took most of the day, and as horrible as the work was, he knew he was the best one for it. Not only did he know the trees, and have a way with them, as all elves did, but the fact that he wasn’t human, made the death of the hunter a thing he could accept more peaceably than his two companions might.
Once the body was on the ground and intact, Vaegon rolled it up in a woolen blanket, and set an old elven warding around it that would protect it for the night. Mikahl would need to take part in the burial, but only after he had rested. Where elves might let their dead decompose back into the ecosystem, Vaegon understood that the nature of the short-lived humans, and their delicate mentality, made the funerary process a necessity. Not so much for the deceased, but for the friends and relatives that survived him.
While he was working, Vaegon heard the trees whisper of the great evil they were feeling among their roots. The wyvern’s blood was in the soil now, and they feared what it would do to them. They could sense that the unnatural beast’s presence in the world was just the beginning of something far worse.
Vaegon listened, and a tiny speck of fear took root in his heart as well. It was no mountain-born wyvern that he had killed this day. That thing was evil and born in a place unnatural; a place from which things shouldn’t be allowed to escape. He understood then that some great dark force had let it and the hellcat loose, and just as the trees feared, far worse was more than likely on its way.
The next day, when the three companions came to the clearing to bury Loudin, they found the strangest of things. In the middle of the clearing, a perfect circle of fragrant blue flowers had grown overnight. The center of the circle was exactly where Ironspike had pierced the earth after Loudin had thrown it, and the whole thing was easily twenty paces across. Mikahl chose that spot to bury his friend. The sign of the good cross that the sword had made, as it wavered there, was fresh in his mind. He felt it would be an ill omen to bury the hunter anywhere else.
The coincidence that he had met Loudin in a clearing, not unlike this one, wasn’t lost on Mikahl either. Where that glade had had a pond, full of sparkling water, this one had an island of magical flowers. It was thoughts like this that kept Mikahl from breaking down as they piled up a great mound of stones over the grave.
The chore was done, slowly and carefully, so as to avoid damaging the flowers around the burial mound. When it was done, even the trees blessed the old hunter’s passing. The magic from the sword, that had leeched into the soil and caused the sapphire blooms to suddenly erupt, had also spread through the earth, and eaten away the corrosive power of the wyvern’s black blood. Vaegon heard the trees whisper a promise to watch over the sacred place, and told his companions as much as they returned to the camp just after dark.
That night, they started using a watch system. Vaegon would be first, then Hyden, then Mikahl. Mikahl insisted on being last. He didn’t explain why and no one asked.
The next morning, as dawn lit the valley shadows, they learned the reason. The young Westlander was going through a furious series of workouts with his softly glowing blade. Hyden and Vaegon both woke, and watched, with respectful awe, as Mikahl went through grueling combinations of slashes, thrusts, and turns, each more strenuous, and graceful than the last. When he was done, he bowed deeply to the four corners of the compass, and even managed a thin smile at the others, as he toweled himself off with one of Loudin’s old shirts.
Through the darkened part of his watch, Mikahl had tried to adapt the sheath from Duke Fairchild’s sword to fit Ironspike’s blade. He managed to work its narrower width so that he could slide his blade down to the bottom, but it was still a hand’s width too short. When the belt was around his waist, a small part of Ironspike’s blade rose glowing up out of it, and the pommel rubbed at his ribs uncomfortably, but it would have to do for now. Ironspike’s scabbard was gone.
After breaking their fast on some dried meat and stream water, Vaegon grew tired of watching Mikahl fiddle with the ill-fitting scabbard, and excused himself from the camp. With a troubled look on his face, he trekked out into the forest, and disappeared.
Hyden was lying down. He appeared to be asleep, but he wasn’t. Talon was out exploring the valley, and through the hawkling’s senses, Hyden was soaring with him.
The old wolf mother had made it out of the ravine with her two pups in tow. She had managed to kill a slow hopper for them to eat. Hyden observed them from the branches of a nearby tree, as they picked the bones clean, and then crunched them between the teeth.
Satisfied that they would be all right, he and Talon circled high, and soared over the whole valley. Movement, not too far from the camp, caught the bird’s keen eyes, and sent mild alarms jangling up Hyden’s spine. He was glad he didn’t react rashly and get Mikahl all excited, because it was only the elf. Vaegon was walking around, mumbling to the trees in a sort of half-dazed state. Not wanting to intrude on his friend’s privacy, Hyden and Talon flew on.
He saw the wyvern’s carcass in the clearing. It looked like a scab, on an otherwise healthy patch of forest. Not even the carrion would touch it. The perfect circle of blue flowers made the place seem unnatural though. Talon alighted briefly on top of the stone mound that was Loudin’s grave. Hyden wondered what sort of place the hunter’s spirit was in now. He didn’t dwell on the question, because it saddened him, and the curious thought was soon forgotten as Talon shot back into the sky.
The hawkling found a column of warm air rising up from where the sun was heating a patch of dark stone, and rode the currents into the heavenly heights. From there, Hyden could see several hundred valleys in every direction he looked. The only real visible change in the terrain, was to the far north: the white-capped mountains were taller, and seemed far less hospitable, while to the south, the sharp peaks, and jagged precipices gradually rounded and smoothed, giving way to warmer, greener foothills.
Talon soared around into a dive, and with his wings tucked back, came streaking down toward the valley where they were camped. It was exhilarating. Even laying on his blanket at the camp, with his eyes clenched shut, Hyden felt the rush of it.
The joy was suddenly eclipsed by another warning sensation rippling up his back. More movement, the flashes of something white and fleeting, darting through the trees at the northernmost ridge above their valley, had caught Talon’s eye. He aimed his diving descent in that direction to investigate. There was another, and then there was a third snow white creature, scrambling through the woods.
They were four-legged creatures, running friskily about the trees without a concern in the world. At the ridge, the density of the canopy thinned, and three of the beasts came leaping out into the open. They were wolves, big wolves, and white as snow. Two more darted out, and the pack pranced in the clearing anxiously, before scattering off in the same general direction on five different trails. One would chase another for a bit, then break off, and playfully take up pursuit of another of its pack mates. They were coming down into the valley towards the camp, and Hyden counted nine of them in all.
These weren’t the gray dusky wolves that lived in the valleys and foothills of the lower mountains, like the one he had healed in the ravine. These were the Great Wolves from the high peaks around the giants’ hidden city of Afdeon. These were the wolves that Berda had told him about on more than one occasion, and recalling that, he knew suddenly why they were here.
Hyden grew excited, and sent Talon up over the ridge from where the wolves had come. Sure enough, he found them there – three giants striding purposefully up the valley towards the ridge.
Borg and a young giantess walked side by side, and behind them, came another huge male, whose bearing and stride were so regal, that Hyden could only assume that it was King Aldar himself.
Hyden jumped to his feet, grinning with anticipation. The sorrow of Loudin’s death was lost for the moment in his excitement. In all his days, he never thought he would ever get to meet the Giant King that Berda had spoken of so often. She had held such obvious regard for this being, that Hyden had always envisioned him as some sort of god on earth. And now, he was going to meet him.
At once, he sent Talon to go land on Borg’s shoulder so that he would know that they had been seen and were expected. Then, he turned to Mikahl’s worried expression, and explained why he had suddenly grown so excited.
“We’ll have to meet them somewhere more open,” Hyden said, as he started to gather up things around the camp. “This is too low. There’s a place by the stream pools where the branches are higher, and the stream bed is open to the sky. I think that will be best.”
“What are you so nervous about?” Mikahl asked. “It’s my future, and my destiny that King Aldar is about to unveil, not yours.”
“Aye,” Hyden laughed lightly. “It’s true, but I’ve heard about this king all of my days. He crossed the desert and treated with the Krags that live on the other side. He’s killed vipers that Berda said were at least a hundred paces long; and his grandfather and a few other giants once killed a dragon. Its skull sits in the council chamber of my Elders. To the kingdom folk, we Clansman seem to live as free men, and we are, but we live in the Giant Mountains, under the protection of King Aldar.”
He paused to take a reverent breath. The importance of this meeting to him, radiated from his expression like the rays of the sun.
“It is no small honor for any Clansman to meet the King of the Giants.”
“Aye,” Mikahl nodded his understanding. “It’s no small honor to meet any king.” He was thinking of King Balton when he said the words, but he found that they awakened something inside of him.
According to Lord Gregory, he was a King, and he decided he would try to act like one when he met King Aldar. He began double-timing his work then. He hoped to be able to wash himself, and he wasn’t sure, but he thought there might be a fairly decent set of clothes stashed in the bottom of Windfoot’s saddle.
The wolves came to the pool in the early evening. The sun had sunk below the mountain tops, leaving the valley bottom in a dusky light, but with a bright blue sky overhead.
The creatures were mildly hesitant as they inched to the water’s edge, and lapped from it. After few moments of pacing back and forth, one of them came splashing across the narrow end of the pool. Once on the companions’ side of it, the animal fiercely shook itself dry. His pack mates quickly followed. They didn’t seem to fear Vaegon’s fire, and it took only a few minutes for the bravest one to inch up to Hyden and sit down.
Hyden, trembling with a mixture of more excitement than fear, let the wolf sniff at him. The wolf’s head was twice as wide as a man’s, and its fangs were the size of a child’s fingers. He was sitting on a big knee-high rock, and still the wolf’s head was higher than his own. When he tentatively reached up to scratch the pack leader behind its ears, he found it was like putting his arm around an old friend’s shoulders. The huge wolf leaned in, nuzzled him, and gave his cheek a lick with its damp, sandy tongue. Its fur was thick enough to lose a hand in.
After a few minutes of ear scratching, the wolf eased away, then stretched out its fore paws and lay out on its belly. The others of the pack weren’t as ready to make friends yet. They paced anxiously about, or laid down a safe distance from the campfire.
All of the wolves, save for the pack-leader, jumped to their feet when a not-so-distant whistle erupted from the woods. The pack-leader only raised his huge head, and tilted it curiously. About half of the pack re-crossed the stream and darted into the forest after the sound. The others grew excited; their pacing became restless in anticipation of their chosen master’s coming.
Borg was the first out of the trees. Mikahl found that he had to look up from where his eyes had expected a head to appear. The Southern Guardian was more than twice the size of a man, and the sight of him standing erect, instead of hunched down in a cavern was startling.
He wore the same dark elk-hide shirt and patch-worked britches as he had before. His similarly patch-worked vest coat was open, displaying the big Dread Wolf skull belt buckle he wore like a trophy. His long, silver-black hair and beard wavered in the breeze. He leaned his weight on his tree trunk staff and stepped across the stream in a single stride to join them. As he approached, his dark eyes moved under a heavy brow, from face to face, nodding respectfully to each of them. He could tell instantly that something was amiss.
“Where’s Loudin?” he asked.
“He’s dead,” Mikahl answered, sadly. “I apologize, but I’d rather only tell the tale once, so I’ll wait to tell it. The bark lizard skin is yours, my friend. I’m sure Loudin would’ve wanted you to have it.”
Borg’s head lowered, and he mumbled something that might have been a prayer, but sounded suspiciously like, “Not for free he wouldn’t have.”
Then, he threw a fat leather bag to the ground at Mikahl’s feet. It was loosely tied, and the mouth of it had fallen open. Inside, was a chunk of raw gold, as big as Mikahl’s fist, and there were a few smaller pieces as well.
“I’m sure that he would’ve wanted you to have that,” Borg said, in a way that left no room for argument.
Just then, the other male giant stepped from the trees, and the group all stood to greet him.
With a rap of his staff, and a sweep of his arm, Borg spoke in a deep, resounding voice.
“May I present King Colossi Aldar, Master of Peaks and Valleys, Lord of Afdeon, ruler of these mountains and all who call them home. The pillar of our -”
“Enough, Borg,” King Aldar interrupted, with a shake of his head. “I get enough of that bunkum at home.”
He absently patted at the two wolves that were prancing at his feet. Another joined them, wagging not just its tail, but its whole body as it vied for the Giant King’s attention.
King Aldar was a full head taller than Borg, but looked much the same. His long hair and beard held quite a bit more silver and gray than the Southern Guardian’s, but his sapphire eyes were not as deeply set. His clothes, while being skins, and made of a similar cut to Borg’s, were far better tailored, and all made from the same animal, so that they didn’t appeared to be patched together.
His staff was made of bone or ivory. Unlike Borg’s, it was no weapon. Its base was shod in silver. Its shaft was carved into a flow of leafy vines, and its head was shaped into a great white wolf. Amber jewels glittered in the eyes of the carved beast, and lent it the unsettling quality of appearing to watch everyone around the King of Giants.
Where Borg’s face was dominated by a huge forehead, King Aldar’s wide, but sharp nose drew the eye. He was wrinkled and old, ancient most likely, but still fit. Wisdom oozed from him like fragrances in a flower garden.
He studied them all for a moment, and then stepped across the stream. He looked down at Hyden, and smiled kindly.
“My daughter has befriended your hawkling it seems. I hope it is no inconvenience. She only came because she’s never seen a human before, and now she’s grown too bashful to present herself.”
He motioned to Borg, and then pointed at a boulder a short way downstream with his staff. Wordlessly, Borg went to the massive rock to roll it to where the king indicated. When it was in place, at the edge of the firelight, King Aldar sat down with a sigh, and motioned for the others to do the same.
“Princess Greta is shy,” he continued speaking about his daughter. “She’s not yet a woman, but trying desperately to keep from being considered a child. She’s curious, which is good, I suppose.”
He looked around towards the forest from where they had come, and looked like he was about to call her, but must have decided against it. Instead, he touched one of the wolves at his feet. Its ears perked up, and with a “Yip!” it, and another wolf, scampered back across a stream, and disappeared into the woods. With his long staff, the Giant King reached over to the wolf by Hyden’s feet, and touched it softly.
“Hunt,” he whispered.
The wolf rose up, stretched, and after a long tongue-curling yawn, it growled at the rest of the pack, and strode off up the creek bed. All but two of the other wolves followed excitedly.
Turning to meet Mikahl’s eyes, Borg spoke.
“Before the princess shows herself, I would like to hear about what befell Loudin of the Reyhall. He was a man I held much regard for.”
Mikahl started to speak, but thankfully, Vaegon cut him off. The elf told the tale concisely and completely, leaving no important detail unspoken. From the physical descriptions of the two dark beasts, to the radiant magic of Ironspike’s blade as Mikahl wielded it against them, the elf painted the gruesome scene.
Mikahl was thankful. He could barely hold back his tears while listening. If he had had to tell the story himself, he would have broken down, and he didn’t want that to happen; not in front of King Aldar.
As the elf told of the burial of Loudin, and the strange circle of blue flowers, Mikahl saw that Princess Greta had come, and in an attempt to not be rude and interruptive, was wandering about on the other side of the pool. At the moment, she was chasing Talon here and there, like a young human girl might chase a butterfly. The two wolves King Aldar had dispatched after her, were lolling nearby, watching her and the area around her. It became clear that they weren’t just lazing. They were intently guarding her.
Hyden noticed the Princess as well, and studied her as Vaegon spoke. She was his size, but by her girlish manner, it was clear that she was only around ten or eleven years old. Her dark hair fell in ringlets around a wide, but pretty face. Even from across the stream, he could make out the spattering of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose, from cheek to cheek. She wore a doe skin long shirt that hung to her knees, and loose fitting britches underneath. A bright, rose-red pair of furred boots matched a coat or cloak that lay in a bunch near the stream.
Hyden couldn’t tell if the boots and cloak had been dyed that color or if it was natural. He couldn’t think of a creature whose fur was that bright a shade of red, but there was no telling what sort of animals lived way up in the heights that the giants called home. It was another question he would have to ask Berda when he saw her again. If he saw her again, he corrected the thought. The feeling that he wouldn’t, seemed to grow stronger every day.
By the time Vaegon had finished the telling, the sky was starting to darken, and the faces of the two giants looked grave. There was a long, reverent silence, and then King Aldar called over his daughter and introduced her.
Princess Greta blushed, and hid behind him while he spoke. She curtsied at the appropriate time, and managed to keep from giggling. Then, when the introduction was finished, she made off with Talon as quickly as she could. Her two great wolf guardians followed her dutifully as she went back across the stream to explore. More than once, Borg’s cautious eyes glanced protectively towards the area where she was playing.
The King of the Giants was silent for a very long time after she left. His eyes kept finding Mikahl, then lingering on the few inches of Ironspike that were exposed, and softly glowing at his hip. He was pondering the news of more dark creatures attacking people in his kingdom. Before running into this group, Borg had killed a red-eyed Hell Boar as it came up out of Westland’s Reyhall Forest into the mountains. The thing had run rampant through a herd, and almost killed a herdsman.
The leader of the wolf-pack returned just after dark. His muzzle showed pink and bloody in the firelight. Borg went off after the beast, and returned with a freshly killed doe. It was obvious that the wolf pack had killed more than one deer, because they all had bloody snouts and paws, and the doe Borg carried was intact, save for a small chunk that had been torn from its neck.
While Borg and Vaegon dressed the meat, King Aldar politely told Mikahl that he would speak to him later, after they had eaten, and in private, if Mikahl wished it so. Mikahl declined the need for privacy. As far as he was concerned, his friends could hear anything King Aldar had to say to him about the scrolls, the sword, and King Balton’s wishes. They were wrapped up in all this now as much as he was. At least it seemed so.
The savory smell of the doe’s haunches roasting over the open flames should have given Mikahl an appetite, but the fear and uncertainty of what was written in King Balton’s scrolls, and what the Giant King might tell him, turned his stomach into an icy knot.
Sensing his discomfort, the leader of the wolf-pack nuzzled his side, and sniffed at Ironspike’s exposed blade, until Mikahl started scratching him behind the ears. Again, the big wolf leaned into him.
Oddly, Mikahl found a deep and calming comfort in the weight of the powerful creature. He was thankful for it.