Michael Mathias - The Sword and the Dragon

“Wendlin has fallen from the cliff!” He choked as the tears started to pour from his eyes. The room started to erupt with questions and concern, but the boy held his hand up to stall them.

“That’s not all of it,” he sobbed. “Jeryn is stuck above the Lip in the darkness.”

“It’s just a boy,” a rough male voice whispered. “It’s easy pickings.”

Mikahl cracked an eyelid and could just make out the booted ankle of a man standing a few feet from his head.

“He’s got himself an ample load, Jerup,” a different voice said from somewhere near the horses.

Mikahl could see by the poor condition of the boot, that the man nearest him wasn’t from the King’s Guard. These were probably bandits. He silently cursed himself for not being more prepared. His sword was tied to Windfoot’s saddle and his bow was still in its case on the pack horse’s rig. He did have a utility dagger at his hip, but, the way he was laying, made getting to it without notice next to impossible.

“Waxed cheese, hard bread,” the man by the horses called out quietly. “Ah, what’s this? A silver flask. Bah! It’s empty, but it’s real silver.”

Mikahl could tell that it was the pack horse’s saddle the man was pilfering. It wouldn’t be long though till he found the King’s sword. It was tied to Windfoot’s saddle.

Think, then act, Mikahl recited the mantra in his head. He yawned and rolled over sleepily being careful to keep his eyes closed as he did so. He ended up in a near fetal position, with his head facing the horses, and his hand on his hip next to his dagger.

“This one’s a heavy sleeper, Donniel,” Jerup, the man standing over Mikahl said. “Go on and take your time, see what else we got there.”

“Must have emptied the flask ’fore nodding off,” Donniel said a little louder. The bandit apparently relaxed his guard, because he began grunting and chuckling as he continued rummaging through the pack saddle.

Mikahl hated giving his back to the man standing near him, but he had to make a move soon, while he could still surprise them. One against two wasn’t very good odds, but he found that he wasn’t afraid at all.

“A fancy longbow, Jerup,” Donniel nearly shouted. “Worth its weight in gold I’d bet.”

The sun was starting to give color to the world now, and in the new light Donniel eyed the golden lion emblem embroidered on Windfoot’s saddle.

“He’s the Kings man Jerup!” His voice was suddenly edged with fear. “We should just leave him be.”

“Nah. We can just kill him,” Jerup said coldly, as he stepped one leg over Mikahl’s body so that he was straddling him.

Mikahl saw that Jerup’s boot was pointing toward Donniel and the packhorse’s saddlebags. He chanced a peak up at the man, and the instant he saw that Jerup’s attention was set on his partner, Mikahl attacked.

The utility dagger found Jerup’s crotch, and sank deeply into his inner thigh. Hot blood spurted when the blade came out, and Jerup crumbled on top of Mikahl. The crossbow Jerup had been carrying fell to the ground, and the impact caused it to loose its bolt. In an explosion of bark, the razor sharp projectile ricocheted off of a tree and sliced right through Windfoot’s tether. As if slapped on the rump by some unseen hand, the startled horse tore away from Donniel and headed at full speed into the deep woods.

“Oh…Oh no! Donnie come and help me!” Jerup pleaded through clenched teeth. “Hurry before he gets-”

Mikahl’s bloody dagger found Jerup’s chin then. He quickly forced the man to roll off of him, and Jerup howled as the sudden movement affected his wound.

Donniel was at a loss. He had no idea what to do. Part of his mind screamed for him to run. Another part of his mind told him to stay and help Jerup. He started towards Mikahl, but when the boy rolled to his feet, he saw the golden lion on the breast of Mikahl’s tunic, and he froze. It would be the dungeons for sure if they were caught. Jerup would have to fend for himself. There was so much of Jerup’s blood on the boy’s chest that Donniel figured his friend was done for anyway.

“Donnie!” Jerup’s voice was weak and full of terror. “Come… Come help me man!”

Mikahl started towards Donniel, and Donniel started to untie the reins to the pack horse’s bridle. He wasn’t fast enough.

With a hard overhand throw, Mikahl’s dagger went spinning across the distance between them. It missed the bandit and buried itself in the tree limb where the leather lines were wrapped. With a yelp, Donniel started to run away, but he was suddenly yanked to a halt. To Mikahl’s surprise, the dagger had pinned Donniel’s sleeve to the tree. The man’s panicked face was full of urgent fear as Mikahl closed in on him, but oddly, his expression calmed when they were finally face to face. He could see over Mikahl’s shoulder that Jerup was now on his belly reloading the crossbow, with nothing less than dire determination on his steadily paling face.

“We…uh…I didn’t do na… nothing t’ you man!” Donniel stammered, trying to buy Jerup some time. “We…uh… Didn’t get away with anything. So… no harm right?”

Mikahl untied the pack horse’s reins with a blank doubtful expression on his face. He didn’t care about these two fools. He just wanted to find Windfoot and be on his way.

Donniel took the blank look for hard and uncaring, as if icy cold water flowed through Mikahl’s veins.

Jerup struggled to aim the crossbow, right at the base of Mikahl’s skull. By the time he managed to pull the trigger, the blood covered boy was turning to lead his packhorse off into the forest. The bolt he’d just fired wasn’t wasted though, it found Donniel’s neck. The bladed tip nicked both his windpipe and his juggler vein. For most of the morning, while Jerup tried desperately to stop the flow of blood from his inner thigh, Donniel’s life leaked from his neck, in a gurgling, pleading hiss.

Windfoot’s trail wasn’t hard to see. The frightened steed had broken branches, trampled undergrowth, and knocked patches of bark from the trees as he’d fled. What made the trail hard to follow was that Mikahl had to search out the signs, with eyes brimming over with hot, salty tears. He was sad and afraid. His whole body shook at the thought of taking Jerup’s life like he had. He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that his blade had found the fat vital artery in the man’s leg. There was no doubt that he would soon bleed to death. The fact that he was a thieving bandit, and was about to kill him, did little to ease the empty feeling he felt inside. He had to stop more than once as terrible sobs racked his body. Only after he cleared his mind and took several deep breaths could he think straight.

He was now as wanted as a man could be in the Kingdom of Westland. He reminded himself of this fact, over and over, when his emotions threatened to overwhelm him. It helped keep his dire situation in perspective but didn’t make him feel any better about what he had done. Taking a man’s life was a monumental thing. Though he had witnessed more than one man’s end, Mikahl had never had to kill anyone. He fought through the powerful emotions that were assailing him, and found a way to continue on. He had no choice. Ironspike was strapped to Windfoot’s saddle, and the horse was running scared. He had to find him and quickly.

Mikahl’s distraught condition kept him from noticing that the sun had crept high overhead. He was getting deeper than he would’ve ever intended into the forest. By the time he realized this, the morning had turned into afternoon. Now he would have to spend the night out here in the woods. Even if he found Windfoot soon, it would be dark before he could work his way back out to the road. He took another look around and found that he wasn’t sure he could even find his way out of the forest again, much less find the trade road.